The Trouble In Dogflat Hollow

by Cameron Sword

  “These are Bill’s kids? He’s the one that wants me dead?”

  “I should’ve seen it coming. Why else would he insist on using you instead of making another arrest? No police report, that’s why. No paper trail linking him to anything.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “I hired him a few months ago, there was this stolen Gauguin I was tracking. I paid him a few thousand dollars to make an arrest and look the other way as I took the painting. He watched me sell it back to the insurance company for half a million dollars, my recovery fee. He watched that and decided to try and cash in this time.”

  Rogers was only theorizing, of course. He was unaware that Fusco had overheard him on his cell phone telling someone about how valuable the skeleton key was to him and how he’d be willing to give up his entire fortune to get it.

  “The pursuit of money. Turns people into monsters, Miss Hallond.”

  “Including you.”

  “Perhaps. But this time it wasn’t about turning a profit.”

  “Oh, that’s right, I forgot. You were out to save the entire universe.”

  “Not the entire universe, Miss Hallond. Just mankind.”

  “This money is mine, pal. I got you the key, you lost it, too bad.”

  “We had a deal, you earned it. But perhaps I could entice you to earn more.”

  “Depends. What do you have in mind?”

  “How would you like it if I could make the contents of that bag double in volume?”

  “I like it so far.”

  “I know who’s got the key. Maybe you wouldn’t mind helping me get it back.”

  “Now it’s beginning to sound dangerous.”

  “There’s this New Year’s Eve party for which I’m having trouble securing an invitation. You might possess the right type of social skills necessary to get us in.”

  “I don’t know. Two million. You mentioned something about your entire fortune.”

  “Three. Triple.”

  “Three million. Still sounds like chump change for a guy who needs to drive over a moat in order to get home.”

  “The castle’s not mine, Miss Hallond. I just live there. Part of a trust fund arrangement.”

  “Ten.”

  Rogers agreed to that number before she had time to blink.

  “Ten it is.”

  “Wait a minute. Twenty.”

  “I believe we’ve made a deal.”

  “Twenty.”

  But he just looked at her.

  “All right, fifteen.” Grace bargained.

  “Fusco told me something about you. Very adamant about it, he was. Once the deal was set, you could be completely trusted to follow through. Was I misinformed?”

  “You suck dick, you know that?”

  Rogers responded with a smile.

  “Okay, ten. But you know me. I want half up front.” Grace reminded him.

  “I’ll have it wired from one of my offshore accounts.”

  “One of? How many you got?”

  Rogers responded with another smile.

  “Big. Fat. Dick.” Grace told him, as Rogers keyed the ignition and drove off. “What’s up with this car? Is it even yours?” Grace continued.

  “You like it?”

  “What happened to your Rolls? The one you had parked outside that café when we first met. Or was that just part of a trust fund arrangement as well?”

  “That was a Bentley. And yes, it’s mine. I keep this one around for occasions where I need to blend into neighborhoods like yours.”

  “Your Bentley. Does it have a license plate frame that reads ‘My Other Car is a Piece of Shit’?”

  “It should. It really should.”

  Fusco manhandled Jon into a holding cell.

  “Have fun, asshole.” Fusco said before locking it closed. He tossed Jon his abacus before disappearing – a seemingly innocuous item.

  “So you can tally up your broken bones along the way.”

  Inside the cell, lolling on a thin mattress laid a guy who might’ve been the individual responsible for inspiring the song, Bad, Bad Leroy Brown. Ugly as sin and XYY-syndromed, arms and legs too long, forehead too large, Leroy sat up, strangling Jon with his eyes.

  “You’re mine, bitch.”

  Jon shuddered. Maybe there were things worse than crucifixion.

  Like any publicly funded organization, this psychiatric building had a grimy, institutional appearance. Buddy was being held here.

  Pumpkin Eater hurried inside, walking past sedated zombies shuffling through the hallways in pajamas and slippers in a state of endless recuperation. He approached the nurses’ station.

  “Excuse me.”

  The nurse glanced up from her crossword puzzle, regarding him through a pair of spectacles that straddled the tip of her nose.

  “Reginald Budsworth Hayes. Can you direct me to his room?”

  “Look at the time. Visiting hours are way past over, sir.”

  “Yes, I’m quite sure they are, madam, but it’s imperative that I speak with him.”

  The nurse set down her crossword puzzle, pointing a threatening pencil in his face, allowing it to drift in a soft arc.

  “What is it with you people, walking in off the street, demanding we bend the rules? Visiting hours are over.”

  “Look, I have neither the time, nor the inclination to debate ‘the rules’ with you. Your supervisor, please.”

  “That’s it, I’m calling security.”

  The nurse engaged a buzzer, alerting a security guard standing by the entrance. Pumpkin Eater was unceremoniously shown the door.

  December 31, 1989 – 6:19 a.m. Pacific Standard Time

  The sun was rising. It was early morning and Pumpkin Eater was high above the ground, shimmying along a mature tree’s branch, his eyes searching rooms, scanning for any signs of Buddy. He’d been doing this all night. Climbing trees outside the psychiatric building, peeking into windows. He was exhausted.

  He’d seen plenty of human dysfunction too, including a woman who was using a padded wall as a canvas, her feces as paint. He finally spotted Buddy in one of the rooms, sitting up in bed, watching cartoons, delighted. Buddy was also picking his nose, eating the spoils.

  Before Pumpkin Eater could call out to Buddy, the branch snapped under his weight, sending Pumpkin Eater tumbling three floors, landing awkwardly in a flowerbed in a tangled heap. Buddy poked his head out the window.

  “St. Peter. What’re you doing here?”

  Pumpkin Eater could only manage to croak back thinly.

  “Consecrated peak of Mount Sinai.”

  “What?”

  “Jon has been arrested. I think for murder.”

  “No way. Who’d he wax?”

  “The charge is false. And time is short. You must secure his release immediately.”

  “Me? What can I do?”

  “You’re a former constable of the law. Have you no friends on the inside?”

  “I was a parking enforcement officer. I have no friends anywhere.”

  Pumpkin Eater deflated as he gathered himself, trying to find his feet. Buddy spotted his Polaroid.

  “Hey, you brought my camera.”

  “Yes. And I wanted to apologize. For what I said. For how I’ve been treating you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I’m truly sorry.”

  “Apology accepted. But I’ll expect a free pass through the gate, no questions asked.”

  “That was going to happen anyway.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cool. Look, don’t worry about Jon, if he didn’t do it, he’ll be out soon enough. A day or two, max.” Buddy explained.

  “We don’t have that long. Jon and I must leave by tonight.”

  “Tonight. That’s not going to happen. Unless the charges are dropped, he’ll need to face arraignment, probably today. Then he’ll have to make bail, assuming the judge grants it.”

  “Is there no other way?”


  “You can bust him out.”

  “How?”

  “I can show you. But I’ll expect something in return.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Maybe you could put my picture up by the gate. Have everyone bow on their way in.”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Okay, it was worth a try. Give me a minute, I’ll be right down. We’re going to need to buy a shovel.”

  “Why?”

  “To dig.”

  Pumpkin Eater had no clue why they’d need to dig, but he was pressed for time and just wanted Buddy out of there.

  “Hurry up. I’ll meet you out front.”

  “No, I can’t just walk out of here. Stay right there.”

  Buddy removed the sheets from his bed and began tying the ends together.

  Buddy examined a marking on the bark of a tree that was growing in a secluded area of a city park. He pivoted to his right and began walking, counting out his steps.

  “What are you doing?” Pumpkin Eater asked, impatient.

  “Shh. You made me lose count.”

  Buddy retraced his steps and started over, finally ending on a section of ground he was searching for. He dug his shovel into the earth.

  Jon’s neck looked like a pencil compared to Leroy’s arm that hung uncomfortably over his shoulders. Leroy wasn’t hurting him, however, it was more like they were now best buddies. Leroy thumbed beads on Jon’s abacus.

  “Let’s see, five people, two holdups each – ten. That adds up.”

  “Wait. Do that again.”

  Leroy complied, teaching Jon how to use the instrument. Jon was finally getting it.

  “You say you carved this yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I keep it?”

  “It’s yours.”

  “You sure? Cause I’m going to patent this thing, you know what I’m saying?”

  Fusco materialized holding a set of keys, disappointed and surprised that Jon was still looking healthy. He opened the cell.

  “Didn’t feel like having any fun last night?” Fusco asked Leroy.

  “I learned a new skill. And once I get out, I ain’t coming back either. I’m going to be rich.”

  “Let’s go.” Fusco told Jon.

  Buddy stood over a shallow pit, lifting a wooden chest out of the ground. He brushed dirt off the lid and opened it. Inside was an immaculately clean parking enforcement officer’s uniform.

  “Hope it still fits.” Buddy said.

  “What’s the plan?” Pumpkin Eater asked.

  “They’ll be moving him out for his arraignment this morning. I’ll wear this uniform, you know, to blend in – then approach the van that’ll be used to transport him. Once they load him inside, I’ll intercept it and drive off; pick you up a couple of blocks away. The three amigos.”

  Buddy was correct when he described how simple it would be to enter a police precinct’s underground garage without anyone paying him any heed. Dressed in that uniform, ill-fitting as it was, he looked like he belonged. He’d also been snooping around in the precinct itself and knew that Jon was about to be transported for his arraignment hearing. Buddy’s plan was coming together nicely, everything falling smoothly into place.

  Buddy slipped into an empty van a moment before the rear doors swung open and closed. He sped away, leaving behind a couple of befuddled cops inhaling exhaust smoke.

  A few blocks away, as planned, he stopped to pick Pumpkin Eater up.

  “Piece of cake.” Buddy said as Pumpkin Eater hopped in.

  They drove into a mall’s parking lot and exited the vehicle to check on Jon in the back and let him out. They opened the rear doors to find Grace’s parole officer, Bert Picknell and his friend, Roy, sitting there instead, cuffed in wrist and ankle chains.

  “Confused generation of Canaan.” Pumpkin Eater bellowed.

  “Oops.”

  Buddy slammed the doors shut, instructing Pumpkin Eater that he’d return the van and try again. And he did.

  This time, however, he burned rubber as he sped away, leaving a befuddled Fusco behind, snorting fumes.

  Remember that street thug who was wielding a switchblade under his victim’s throat as Jon materialized before his eyes? Well, he was at it again, this time snatching a woman’s purse as he rode by on a bicycle. The thug turned a corner as Buddy drove by.

  Buddy continued down the street for several blocks, eventually pulling into the same mall parking lot. He and Pumpkin Eater jumped out, swung open the rear doors, relieved to see Jon sitting there – in wrist and ankle cuffs.

  “There’s nothing further you can do. We have to leave.” Pumpkin Eater told Jon, getting right down to it.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  Pumpkin Eater produced Grace’s picture, going on to explain how he’d never touched photos before, didn’t know he could sense information from them as he could from strands of hair. Except photos stayed cool to the touch. He carried on, elaborating in detail about why Grace’s soul was so tainted.

  Yves LaPomme was her biological father. LaPomme had dabbled in the occult in his younger life and managed to conjure up Staan himself. They made a deal. LaPomme would pledge Staan his firstborn child, thereby, her soul, and in exchange, Staan would make him the wealthiest, most powerful man on the planet. There were two caveats, however. The child had to be birthed by a woman of Staan’s choosing. Staan knew that Ouranos’ CEO was experimenting with reincarnation and he wanted Grace’s soul. What a lovely trophy. The reason Grace’s birth mother was killed was because she was only fifteen and LaPomme was thirty-three at the time. And it was a rape. She had to be eliminated or she might, at some point, decide she was no longer intimidated by LaPomme and elect to involve the police.

  The second caveat centered around LaPomme engaging some sort of mechanism on January 1st, 1990, which would unleash destruction upon Dogflat Hollow. The world would end, but once in Tartaros, LaPomme’s reward would be veneration to second in command. Absolute power. For all time.

  Pumpkin Eater reminded Jon of his promise to Virginia. Do not interfere with events that lead to the Day of Reckoning. Jon had come down to save one soul, not 5.3 billion. Saving Grace’s soul, if it were even possible at this point, would mean preventing the Day of Reckoning, thereby saving every other living human in the process.

  It was a lot to take in and it troubled Jon beyond consolation, but Pumpkin Eater tried.

  “It was a noble effort, what you attempted to do, but I think it’s best you leave things to your father to sort out from here. We should go.”

  Jon stood up, despondent, still shackled.

  “Do either of you have a key for these restraints?” Jon asked.

  They didn’t.

  “I don’t think it would create such a noticeable seismic event up there if you were to wave your hand at that problem. Compared to the last time you waved your hand, I mean. That must’ve been something.” Pumpkin Eater told Jon.

  Jon waved his hand. His restraints magically fell to the floor.

  “Wow, I will never get tired of watching you in action.” Buddy exclaimed, as he snapped off a photo of the broken restraints.

  They left on foot, leaving the van parked there, rear doors still wide open. The purse-snatching thug appeared, still pedaling his bike like a madman. A swerving motorist cut him off, sending the thug careening over a curb and somersaulting headfirst into the back of the van, the doors swinging shut behind him. Karma exists, I tell you.

  Jon, Pumpkin Eater and Buddy had gathered in the filthy alley once more, exchanging final good-byes, pledging to see each other again. Jon appeared a little hesitant though. He didn’t want to break his promise to his mother, but he wasn’t ready to give up.

  Jon thought about the lion-devouring-the-armadillo tattoo Grace described and mused over its symbolism. Complete victory over deep-seated inhibitions. Taking back one’s life. No more artificial constraints or impediments. Surely, this was one o
f those turning point moments that offered meaning to that. He could assert himself. Find his power. He was The Light after all. Right?

  “Okay, I suppose that’s it then. Whenever you’re ready to utter claustrophobia three times.” Pumpkin Eater suggested to Jon.

  “How could someone be allowed to barter away someone else’s soul? Isn’t there some sort of rule against that?” Jon asked Pumpkin Eater.

  “Look, I have no idea how things work anymore. As you pointed out, this entire mess is off script. You were supposed to know, I certainly wasn’t supposed to be here, we’re doing reincarnation now, I don’t know what’s up and what’s down anymore.”

  “You guys are doing reincarnation? Cool.” Buddy said, continuing with... “Hey, can I come back as someone rich and famous next time?”

  “I can’t go. I can’t let this happen.” Jon told Pumpkin Eater.

  “Jon.” Pumpkin Eater warned.

  “I’m not asking that you be involved. Just go back to the apartment and wait until midnight.”

  Jon turned to leave. Pumpkin Eater took him by the arm.

  “Jon, please, be reasonable.”

  “I think I finally am. You were right. I’ve been an absentee chair for far too long.” Jon explained as he gently shook free and walked off. Pumpkin Eater stood there for a moment before catching up with him.

  “All right. If you’re not willing to give up, then neither am I. What are you planning?”

  “I don’t know, but it seems to me, I need to find her father.”

  “Fine. Let’s go.”

  “Cool. Let’s do this.” Buddy said, chiming in, looking forward to the upcoming adventure.

  Staan was sitting in his control room, agitated, as he watched events involving Jon, Pumpkin Eater and Buddy unfold on a monitor. He snapped his fingers crisply at his crony, the short disfigured man whose clothes were still smoldering.

  “Adolf! My tailor at once!”

  December 31, 1989 – 8:15 p.m. Pacific Standard Time

  A small, but vocal protest was under way under the careful scrutiny of a contingency of police. In the near distance stood LaPomme’s Beverly Hills manor. Inside its iron gates, valets were busy parking expensive cars and limos were discharging invited guests.