The Trouble In Dogflat Hollow

by Cameron Sword

  Rogers didn’t know exactly how Grace managed to obtain their invitations but they were inside. He suspected she had slept with the event planner, but the reality was, she had just paid him off handsomely, pretending to be a socialite, new in town, and she wanted to get to know important locals.

  Rogers, of course, was in full disguise. Moustache and beard and a fat body suit under his tux, which made him appear fifty pounds heavier.

  Grace was in a gown and she looked really good. I mean, stunning. She helped herself to a glass of vintage champagne before sampling the finger foods that were floating around on silver trays. Rogers pointed out LaPomme.

  “That’s him. Work your magic, but don’t overmedicate him. I need him mildly coherent so he can tell me where those artifacts are.”

  “Do you mind? I’ve done my job, I’m enjoying myself now.”

  He just gave her a look that meant, now what’re you trying to pull? She answered that look.

  “The right type of social skills to get us in. We’re in.”

  “That wasn’t the deal.”

  “It was the deal I heard.”

  “That wasn’t the spirit of the deal.”

  “Hey, I’m not a mind reader.”

  Rogers hissed air, frustrated, angry. She wasn’t going to budge and he knew it.

  “All right. I’ll kick in another five. Fifteen.”

  “These crab cakes are really good.”

  “Fifteen, Miss Hallond.”

  “How about fifty.”

  “Fifty million dollars? Are you insane? Fifteen.”

  “Fifteen, fifty. It all adds up to zero unless you get those artifacts, right? I mean, according to your end-of-the-world theory.”

  “Twenty. But that’s it.”

  “Tell you what, I’m a reasonable woman. Forty and we have a deal.”

  “Twenty.”

  “I have to go.”

  He grabbed her.

  “You’re a real witch, you know that? Okay, forty.”

  She started chuckling.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I meant I have to go to the bathroom. I would’ve taken twenty, but forty it is.”

  “You get around on a broom.”

  “I’ll be back in a minute. Fetch me another glass of champagne.”

  She wandered off, brushing past Staan, who had just made his entrance, looking very debonair in tux and tails, complete with top hat. He actually charmed Grace with his confident smile as she passed. He continued on, grooving to the music, finally intercepting an unsuspecting LaPomme by the punch bowl.

  “Great party. Amicable crowd.” Staan said.

  “You’re early. Is something wrong?”

  “We have a developing situation. Nothing serious. You’re about to play host to five intruders.”

  “Where? I’ll have security dispatched.”

  “On the contrary. Two of them have already sampled your delicious hors d’oeuvres. I want you to make arrangements to invite the other three in as soon as they arrive.”

  “Who are they?”

  “That’s not important for now. Where’s the box?”

  “In the library.”

  “Show me.”

  And as they walked off, or in Staan’s case, grooved off…

  “Tell me. Do you keep pet dogs?” Staan asked.

  “Cats.”

  “Shame.”

  LaPomme seemed troubled as he led Staan further into his mansion, far removed from the festivities. He finally gathered the nerve to ask.

  “Look, these intruders. I feel I have the right to know. Who are they?”

  “You’re about to meet the big boy’s son. Honcho Junior.”

  “He’s here?”

  “He will be. Your daughter’s here. This is shaping up to be one terrific New Year’s, huh?”

  LaPomme tugged at his collar. He was really unsettled all of a sudden.

  “Maybe we should just go ahead and open that box up right now.”

  “Don’t disappoint me, Yves. You’re no longer programmed to exhibit fear.”

  “It’s not fear. It’s concern. The Son. He wields a lot of power.”

  Staan’s tail whipped up from under his tux and stung LaPomme on the neck, sending him crashing to the carpet.

  “Listen very carefully. He wields no power, do you understand? Zero. It’s called influence. Why is it that my protégés have so much trouble understanding that concept?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Staan tucked away his tail, offering up his hand to help LaPomme find his feet. He brushed dust off LaPomme’s lapel, smoothing it out, appreciating the texture.

  “Nice fabric. Too thick for silk.” Staan lamented.

  “Silk polyamide blend. It’s the new silk.”

  Staan compared the texture of LaPomme’s jacket with his own.

  “Hmm. My tailor’s got to go. Hard worker, devoted to his craft, but he’s not keeping up with the latest trends. Then again, he’s quite a whiz with electrical equipment.”

  Staan threw open his jacket to reveal red hot coils sewn inside – there to help keep him cozy in Dogflat Hollow’s frigid atmosphere.

  “It’s in here.” LaPomme said, ushering Staan through the main entrance to his expansive library. This room was enormous and boasted side and rear entrances and exits, it was that large.

  The box and key were visible on a desk. Staan cracked a smile, taking the box, examining it lovingly, as if it were his child.

  “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful? It was designed to be completely impenetrable without that key. And totally indestructible. Ever hear about Honcho Junior creating anything that was totally indestructible?”

  “No.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “No power. Only influence.”

  “We’re going to get along just fine, you and me.”

  Staan lit a cigar, working a grain of tobacco to the tip of his tongue before spitting.

  “Okay, I’m going to explain how to prep this so I want you to listen very carefully. Take the key and—”

  Grace materialized at the door, interrupting, holding a couple of drinks like a two fisted drinker, pretending to be drunk. She had seen LaPomme and his friend wander off and decided to follow them.

  “Excuse me. Where’s the bathroom?”

  She stumbled in as she asked that – subtle – a seasoned seductress taking full advantage of that slit in her gown, flesh flashing as she moved.

  “Downstairs. The way you came. Third door on the left.” LaPomme instructed.

  But Grace was still entering further, moving closer to the artifacts, pointing them out as if she were impressed.

  “Wow. Are these antiques?”

  “Please don’t touch anything.” LaPomme said.

  “Nonsense. The young lady obviously appreciates fine craftsmanship. Go ahead, lovely. Touch away.”

  Grace smiled, winking a thank you at Staan, bending to place the drinks on the desk before she handled the artifacts, no subtlety now, like a drunken Cinderella in a porno movie, exposing plenty of cleavage.

  She came up holding the skeleton key, all business now, a gun leaping into her other hand.

  “I know what you’re thinking. Is that a real gun? And, if so, is this bitch crazy enough to use it on us?”

  BAM! A book disintegrated on a shelf.

  “Technically, that only answers your first question, but I should disclose that I’ve been institutionalized a couple of times.”

  LaPomme looked to Staan for help but Staan kept on puffing away, enjoying her performance. Grace dropped a tablet into each drink she had been carrying.

  “Bottom’s up, boys. Don’t worry, it’s only a mild sedative. You’ll miss the festivities, but I suspect you’ll probably thank me for that in the morning.”

  Staan advanced toward her. Amused. Grace thumbed back the hammer.

  “Or there’s hollow points. Harsh sedative. Either way is fine with me.”

  “This i
s very thoughtful of you. We can all use a little more tranquility in our lives. I know my friend here’s been feeling rather overwrought lately. Make ours the hollow points.”

  Grace squeezed off a shot that sailed over Staan’s head.

  “You sure about that?” she asked.

  “I must look awfully tall with this hat on. There, is that better?”

  Staan removed his top hat to expose a pair of horns. And as Grace momentarily fixated on his horns, Staan’s tail swung into action, stinging her. She collapsed in a heap, unconscious.

  “You know, I hope this doesn’t sound sexist of me, but I’ve found that generally speaking, women have less of a tolerance for pain than men. Most men writhe on the floor after being stung, most women find the pain so excruciating that they pass out. I find that very odd considering women endure the intense torment of childbearing. What do you think, Yves?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe most women don’t find giving birth to be tormenting at all.”

  “Hmm, I suspect you make a good point. That old saying, however, the apple never falls too far from the tree – complete folly. She didn’t grow up to be anything like you at all.”

  LaPomme regarded Grace differently now, realizing she was his biological daughter. Staan scooped up the key from Grace’s flaccid fingers, offering it up to LaPomme.

  “As I was saying, take this key and insert it into the box. Gently. Ease it in and give it a quarter turn to the right. Just a quarter, no more.”

  LaPomme followed instructions exactly as given. The box began to shudder and smoke.

  “Excellent. Now step away. Don’t even breathe on it.” Staan warned.

  Fusco was resigned to his fate. He was living on borrowed time. Grace had just been identified as the prime suspect and a warrant had been issued for her arrest. Forensics had positively linked her to Foster’s murder and she would crack under questioning. Everybody always does.

  There was no way he was going to jail. Cops don’t do well in penitentiaries. Fusco thought of a detective he used to know when he was a younger member of the force who’d gotten himself tangled up in a murder-for-hire. The detective was sentenced to only five years on a plea deal, but he barely served six months before they found him, battered and bruised, with a shiv forced deep into his anus. That’s what killed him, the shiv. It was a slow, painful, undignified death. No way was he going to prison.

  Then there was LaPomme and his henchmen who’d be paying him a visit soon – and he had not managed to find the artifact. He had to disappear.

  He and Rocco jumped into his car and drove off, leaving behind his home. He’d never return. He’d already made elaborate travel plans that included crisscrossing the globe by airline, boat, train, bus, and finally, by donkey or mule to arrive at their final destination. And they wouldn’t need much money there. He and Rocco were both nostalgically forlorn, to be sure, but they also looked forward to starting unfettered lives. This would become the grandest adventure of their existence.

  December 31, 1989 – 11:25 p.m. Pacific Standard Time

  The vocal protest rally continued outside LaPomme’s manor, but it was impotent, really. Many people had already left and the police presence was omnipresent.

  Jon, Pumpkin Eater and Buddy pulled up in the police van, Buddy at the wheel. They had doubled back to get it. In the rear, the street thug was banging on the walls, demanding to be set free. Our trio ignored him, realizing who he was because Jon had recognized him as the mugger in the alley. This was penance.

  “Congregated chariots of Rameses. Look at the security. How are we supposed to gain entrance?” Pumpkin Eater asked.

  “I’ll make it happen.” Jon responded.

  “Yeah, baby.” Buddy said, eager to witness more miracles.

  But before Jon had the chance to wave his hand, Atiu materialized out of nowhere, stepping in front of the van. He grunted, summoning for our trio to follow him. On foot.

  “What do you make of this?” Buddy asked.

  “I think he’s inviting us in.” Pumpkin Eater answered.

  “We accept.” said Jon.

  They disappeared, exiting the van, following Atiu through security and into the area beyond the iron gates, crossing for the manor. Not the main entrance, however. A rear entrance.

  In the van, the street thug continued to bang on the walls, rocking the vehicle back and forth, insisting somebody let him out, he had to use the bathroom. The disturbance caught the attention of a pair of policemen in riot gear. They approached the van, poised to dole out a beating.

  Inside LaPomme’s mansion, expectant partiers were drinking and eating and dancing as they kept their eyes on a clock that was ticking away. It was a quarter to midnight now. Only fifteen more minutes before 1990 arrived.

  Far away from the festivities, the library was empty now. Just the box, the key inserted into it. Throbbing. Steaming. Whistling fiercely. A pressure cooker about to explode.

  Atiu led Jon, Pumpkin Eater and Buddy into the library through its main entrance, leaving shortly afterward, closing the heavy doors behind him.

  “Is it just me or are the hairs on the back of your necks standing on end as well?” Buddy asked.

  Pumpkin Eater approached the box to inspect it more carefully.

  “Wait. Don’t touch it.” Jon warned. “I’ve seen this before. In one of my father’s old scrapbooks. It’s a type of particle accelerator. Early prototype. Very powerful and highly unstable.”

  “A what?” asked Pumpkin Eater.

  “Black holes. Super massive ones. The science behind how they’re formed.”

  A column of smoke wafted into Jon’s face from behind a stack of shelves. Staan, wearing his top hat again, emerged into view through a cloud of acrid tobacco haze, an air of well-tempered arrogance about him.

  “Very good.” Staan said, congratulating Jon for knowing.

  “Staan.” Jon replied, surprised to see him there.

  “Staan?” Buddy echoed, wide-eyed.

  “You were right to tell dear Peter not to touch it. It’s on a timer, set to spring open thirty seconds before midnight, but the slightest contact and poof. It’s agape. That would’ve been such a tragedy because we have so much to catch up on. Tell me. What’s been going on? How’s life?” Staan asked Jon.

  “Been thinking about getting a tattoo.”

  “Really? How fun. And you, Peter?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Bombastic as ever. You just never disappoint. Tell me, Jon. This tattoo you’re mulling over. A lion devouring an armadillo?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you really think it suits you? The person you are?”

  “The person I’m becoming. I’m no longer keeping some of my promises, for example.”

  Staan laughed heartily.

  “You really think you can stop this?” Staan asked, still chuckling.

  “No open box, no Armageddon. No Armageddon, no soul. Contract null and void.” Jon explained.

  “Go ahead then. Wave your hand. Make it go away.” Staan insisted.

  Jon did just that, but nothing happened. He waved his hand one more time, and again… nothing. Staan howled.

  “How about I just cool things off a bit.” Jon said as he waved his hand creating a thick block of ice that enveloped the box. Never touching it, just surrounding it. The ice evaporated into steam almost immediately. Staan continued to howl.

  Growing increasingly anxious, Jon waved his hand again, this time producing a hardened steel mesh that surrounded the box like canned tuna. Again, never touching it, but positioned in a way that would prevent it from opening. Like the ice, however, the net evaporated almost immediately, floating away in gaseous form. Staan kept howling, delighted.

  “Crap, this is bad, isn’t it?” Buddy said, directed at Pumpkin Eater.

  An expression of real concern registered over Jon’s face. Maybe this was futile.

  “A hint.” Staan offered as he attempted to catch his breath from
all that laughing. “You are completely impotent against that box. Want to know why?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Your miracles manipulate elements found only throughout this universe. This box was manufactured by your daddy in his tool shed using elements not available in this universe. Sorry, Junior. It won’t be long before billions of protons smash into each other with the energy not seen since the Big Bang, or Creation, as your papa refers to it. Then, as gravitational attraction between those particles increases, tada! A black hole is formed, becoming massive over a very short period of time, destroying the solar system within five minutes, a large portion of the galaxy within an hour. Not even light will survive.”

  “Don’t do this.” Jon pleaded.

  “Tell you what. I’m a fair individual. I’m willing to open the floor to interesting offers. Since you took the trouble to make the trip and all. Maybe we can both get what we really want. What do you say?”

  “What are you proposing?”

  “I’ve always fancied your soul. Pledge it to me and I’ll release title on Magdalene’s. An even swap.”

  “You want my soul? That box stays closed. You turn your back on mankind. Forever.”

  “No!” Pumpkin Eater yelled, drawing a deep breath and lowering one shoulder, attacking Staan like a rutting rhino. Staan sidestepped him. Pumpkin Eater propelled through a plate glass window, disappearing into a tangle of bushes outside, a couple of floors below.

  “That’s an interesting counter offer, Jon. Let me ruminate over it for a moment.”

  Buddy unexpectedly stepped forward.

  “Mr. Staan? Reginald Budsworth Hayes. I have a question.”

  “Please.” Staan said, encouraging Buddy to ask.

  “You were in paradise at one time, the most powerful archangel, nice set of wings, all the autonomy in the universe. Why mess up a cool gig like that?”

  “Don’t placate him, Buddy.” Jon urged.

  “No, that’s a fair question. And thank you for asking, Reginald, because nobody’s ever bothered to ask it in that way before. You want to know why? I’ll tell you. There I was, as you put it, the most powerful of the archangels, great set of wings, all the autonomy in the universe – being falsely led to believe that I was being groomed to take over the entire operation one day. Or, at the very least, rise to become second in command. Then, I caught wind that Junior’s father was planning a son. A little boy, Mr. Hayes. Offspring, especially male offspring, always means one thing. Nepotism. I would continue to work my wings to the bone and Junior here would become esteemed over me. Well, to hell with that.”