A Whisky, Tango & Foxtrot Mystery 04 - A Deadly Tail
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“How much is almost?”
I had a pretty good idea of who that would turn out to be, but Tango surprised me.
I turned to look, and saw Pal, the erstwhile Lassie, sprawled out at the foot of a tree.
[You’ve cast a canine in the leading role?] said Whiskey. His voice sounded like it couldn’t decide between suspicion and outright disbelief.
[Aha! So you admit dogs are better actors than cats!]
She gave him a cool glance.
[But—your original point was—did you just call me sweetheart?]
[I have no interest in participating in this debacle, other than observing it from afar and taking satisfaction when it implodes. Which it currently seems to be in the throes of doing.]
I looked down at Whiskey and frowned. “Sorry, pooch. I need you to take a more active role—by which I mean undoing the mess on the other side of the hill.”
[Are you sure? My encounter with the goats was less than successful.]
I reached down and stroked his head. “Yeah, but this time you’ll have help. Deceased goats may not give you the respect you deserve, but dead dogs will. You’re the alpha male of this entire graveyard, remember? I want you to form a canine Order Patrol, using the spirits of every working dog you can find. Then put ’em to work.”
He understood immediately. [Ah, the authority of an organized force. I’ll get right to it, shall I?]
“Forthwith,” I agreed, and he leapt to his feet and sprinted toward the top of the hill.
But he never arrived.
I was used to hearing all sorts of ghostly animal noises in the graveyard: barks, yowls, screeches, birdsong. But there was one sound I didn’t hear very often, and I heard it now: the thumpity-thump of spectral hooves.
Whiskey skidded to a standstill halfway up the rise. The hoofbeats got closer as the unseen animal thundered its way along the slope on the other side.
And then it crested the hill, and came to a stop.
It was a golden horse with a white mane—a palomino. Like all spirit animals, its natural color glowed as if lit from within. And it had a rider.
Not on its back, though. Front paws perched on the horse’s broad golden head, back legs straddling the mane, a small black-and-tan dog with twinkling eyes and a panting smile on its muzzle balanced itself confidently. [Hi!] the dog said. [We’re here for the audition.]
I gaped.
“Yes,” I managed. “And I think he’s riding Trigger.”
* * *
Trigger, for the woefully uneducated among you, was Roy Rogers’s horse. Roy Rogers, for the mid-twentieth-century-singing-cowboy-challenged among you, was … well, a singing cowboy. He was wildly popular during his day, starred in over a hundred movies, and had his own radio and TV shows.
But it’s his horse that’s really impressive.
His birth name was Golden Cloud, but Rogers eventually renamed him Trigger; not just because it sounded cool, but because the horse could follow an instruction as easily as pulling a—well, you know. Trigger could reportedly understand 150 trick cues, walk fifty feet on his hind legs, and poop on command. It was this last feat that ensured his stardom, because it meant he could make personal appearances in theaters and other venues where horses weren’t allowed. Not that he was asked to poop as part of his repertoire—this was back in the fifties, you understand. No, it was because he wouldn’t dump a load of horse apples until told it was okay that made him so beloved. Well, appreciated.
And now here he was in front of me, in the flesh. Okay, spirit, but still.
Being ridden by Benji.
I find it hard to believe there are people who haven’t heard of Benji, but in case you’re one of the few: Benji was just as big a deal as Trigger. Like Trigger, he had a stage name and a given name (Higgins). As far as pedigree goes, he was a mutt; best guess was a mix of cocker spaniel, miniature poodle, and schnauzer. He was found by an animal trainer named Frank Inn at the Burbank Animal Shelter, and Inn soon realized he had star material on his hands.
Higgins started his career in a popular sitcom called Petticoat Junction—where he was simply known as Dog. From there he jumped to the movies (the made-for-TV ones, unfortunately) with Mooch Goes to Hollywood, which featured talents ranging from Richard Burton to Edward G. Robinson.
Higgins was eleven when he made Mooch Goes to Hollywood, considered pretty old for an acting dog, and so he was retired. End of his story, right?
Wrong. Three years later, in 1974, came the film Benji.
Higgins came out of retirement to the play the title role. If the old adage about multiplying a dog’s age by seven to get the human equivalent holds true, that made Higgins ninety-eight years old when he made his one and only big-screen film.
(By the way, that adage isn’t accurate. For a small dog, fourteen years old is closer to seventy-two in the human calendar—and actors always lie about their age. But still.)
It was filmed on a tight budget, about half a million dollars. No distribution company would touch it. The director finally had to form his own distribution company to get it into theaters.
And then it made forty-five million dollars, one of the top-grossing films of the year. Depending on whom you believed, it was either the tenth, fifth, or third most profitable flick of 1974.
Benji is a remarkable movie. I saw it when I was a child, and I’ll always remember just how amazing the hero of the story was. Higgins (though of course at the time I had no idea that was his real name) didn’t just do tricks; he acted. He managed to convey real emotion every time he was on screen, and he had an impressive range: from fear to love, from melancholy to pride. The movie’s shot mostly from the dog’s point of view, and it captures that brilliantly. Alfred Hitchcock was apparently a fan.
And here he was. The dog, not Alfred Hitchcock.
Higgins launched himself from the horse, ricocheted off two headstones, and ended up almost at our feet. [Sorry I’m late,] he said. His telepathic voice was merry and just a little gruff, like a Christmas elf who used to smoke. [You know what traffic’s like in this town.]
[What do you think? We want to jump on board your crazy train. What’s a dog-and-pony show without a dog and pony?]
Tango nodded. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her do that before.
[The lead? You think I wanted to play the lead? Ha! No, no, that’s a job for a younger dog. I’m a character actor; give me a supporting role and I promise you I’ll shine. Sure, I’m best known for playing the spunky underdog, but I’d like to stretch my muscles. Maybe even go a little dark—I could do a terrific villain.]
He lowered his head and growled.
Okay, imagine a cuteness rocket. Now imagine someone standing on top of that rocket as it blasts through space as fast as a cuteness-based missile can possibly go. Now imagine someone standing on top of that rocket with a gun. (No, neither the person nor the gun has to be cute. I know I’m asking for a lot with this metaphor already.) Now have the person fire a cuteness bullet from the gun, ahead of the rocket.
That bullet is how cute Higgins was when he growled.<
br />
We laughed. We aawwwwwed. We did both at the same time.
And did Higgins take offense? No. He promptly flipped over on his back, waved his little paws in the air, rolled side-to-side, and kept on growling. The laughing and awwwing amped up.
His timing was immaculate. When he’d milked the bit for all it was worth, he was back on his feet in a flash. [Well? Terrifying, no?]
[Are you kidding? He’s been in more movies than the Hollywood sign. And he prefers Golden Cloud, these days.]
During this exchange, Whiskey had been studying the horse. Golden Cloud seemed less interested in him, though he did spare him the occasional glance.
[I’m an admirer of your work,] Whiskey finally said. [Sir.]
(I’m a horse, son, not a knight—though my first role was Maid Marian’s steed. GC will do just fine.)
[I’ve seen your films. Many of them, I mean. Of your films.]
(Have you? Hope you liked ’em okay.)
[I did! Do. My favorite is The Golden Stallion. You were so compelling in that! And when Roy actually goes to jail to save your life? The scene where you say good-bye? It always gets to me.]
(Kind of you to say, pardner. It’s always nice to be appreciated.)
“Whiskey!” I called. “Sorry to interrupt, but you’ve got a crisis to handle, remember?”
[What? Oh, yes, that’s right. A great honor to meet you, sir—I mean, GC. Er. Good-bye.] And with that, he bolted around the horse and over the hill.
I couldn’t believe it. My erudite, levelheaded canine was tongue-tied, and my canine-loathing cat was being charmed—charmed!—by a small, roguish dog. Starstruck, the both of them.
“Okay, Tango. Wrap this up, okay? Eli’s not happy, and he’s the head of the studio. Tick him off and you won’t get anything green-lit.”
[Well,] said Higgins, [I’ll let you get back to work, then. Call me when you need me, sweetheart. Ciao.]
And with that, Higgins trotted off. Trigger—I mean, Golden Cloud—nodded solemnly at both of us. (Ma’am. Ma’am.) Then he followed his diminutive partner back over the hill and out of sight.
Pal got up and ambled over to us. He stared at Tango for a second without saying anything. Then: [He wants my part.]
[Don’t you sweetie me! That little ham is after my role!]
[Actually, I was only the first to play the role. Though almost all the subsequent ones were my offspring or descendants.]
I sighed, and walked away.
12.
Once I had Whiskey on the job, it didn’t take long. Dogs are pack animals; give them a strong leader and directions to follow, they’ll fall in line pretty quickly. Whiskey located a number of lieutenants—sheepdogs, collies, blue heelers—quickly, and told them what to do. None of them questioned his authority or complained, because all he was really doing was giving them permission to follow their own instincts. In a matter of minutes each of them was dashing around, barking orders at all the other species to get in line—
Hmmm. Speaking of metaphors, there’s a pretty obvious one here.
But this isn’t meant to be a political allegory, so I’m just going to put that aside and describe the more ludicrous aspects of the operation. For instance, each of the dogs was responsible for a different kind of animal, but since they were all mixed together the dogs had to continually explain whom they were trying to direct:
[Hey! Form a line to the left! No, not the guinea pigs, the gerbils! Don’t step on the mice! Get those ducks in a row! Somebody find a place for that chicken! No, not next to the alligator! Somebody get the anaconda off Alex—Alex, I told you you can’t just pick them up and drop them in a pile! Keep those turtles moving!]
The most difficult animals to herd were the birds and the cats. The dogs couldn’t do much about the birds until Whiskey got the bright idea of enlisting a dolphin’s help. Dolphins are fast, agile, and love to play, so this one had no problem zooming around and corralling renegade flyers. Birds—even ghostly ones—aren’t used to seeing something that large and fast up in the sky with them.
And as for the cats, Whiskey didn’t even try. He told me later that he figured once everyone else had calmed down and resumed their normal activities, the cats would, too; they’d wait just long enough to make it seem like it was their own idea, and then pretend the riot never happened in the first place. Which is more or less what happened.
Tango, the author of this catastrophe, simply wandered off (after convincing Pal his part was still secure), with the stated intention of taking a nap.
“I thought you said you were going to work on revising the script,” I pointed out.
Whiskey would have had a cutting reply to that, but he was busy overseeing Operation: Roundup. I just shrugged and told her to concentrate on less disruptive creativity in the future.
When the dust had settled, I commended my general on a battle well fought. He tried to respond to my praise in a professional manner, but a dog’s tail will always give him away. Today was the most fun he’d had in a while—which got me to thinking.
“You know,” I said as we walked along, deeper into the graveyard, “all work and no play makes for a pretty dull day. I don’t think you and I do this often enough.”
Whiskey stopped to sniff at a headstone and gave a stern, official glance at a hamster who seemed to be wandering aimlessly. The hamster abruptly remembered how to aim and shot away. [Put down an insurrection? I should hope not.]
“That was hardly an insurrection. More like rampant untidiness.”
[Whatever you wish to call it, it’s over now. We shall have to be vigilant to make sure it doesn’t happen again.]
“Sure. Think we could do that and maybe chase some sticks at the same time?”
His head snapped around and his ears grew points. [Sticks? Plural? Or are you simply being ungrammatical?]
I grinned. “I was thinking more along the lines of a single stick thrown multiple times, but if you’d prefer more than one I think we can work something out.”
He panted happily. [That sounds splendid. How many sticks? A dozen? Perhaps two? I can tell you where to find some fine examples in the brush over by the west wall.]
“Uh, let’s try to keep this manageable, okay—”
Which is when I saw Maxwell Tervo.
He was standing by himself, at a grave. He wore a long black greatcoat and a bowler hat, an outfit from the movie; I remembered him telling me at dinner that he liked to keep costumes from his various roles as mementos. The grave had a brass urn mounted on the headstone, one that held human cremains; that meant this grave was also a portal to the human afterlife for any animal spirit who cared to use it.
“Hello, Maxwell,” I said.
He didn’t look up. He was staring intently at the headstone itself, obviously deep in thought. I waited.
After a moment he spoke, but didn’t turn to look at me. “Ah. Miss Foxtrot, and her constant canine companion. Good day, madame.”
“Better than yesterday, anyway. Doing a little epitaph-surfing? Keene says he finds them inspiring.”
“Graveyards are always a source of inspiration. I consider them monuments; not to the corpses they contain, but rather to the devices that filled them.”
He gestured with his hand. “Over there, a rash of cholera deaths a hundred years ago. Farther down the hill, a carriage accident, three drownings, and the tragic death of an infant. Two suicides flank a soldier’s loss, and a host of the elderly surround the unlucky and the unwell. Death, in all its guises, come to visit each and every citizen of this necropolis.”
I blinked at him. “Um. You know this is a pet cemetery, right?”
He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Death is the great instructor, and I his greatest pupil. I come here to study, to learn, to understand. How many of these graves hide the secret victims of murder, do you think? A dozen? A hundred? More? We shall never know for certain, but we can speculate, we can analyze. Over here, the burial plot of a young woman next to her much older husband. Was there a dalliance discovered? Arsenic slipped into a cup of tea?”
“Those are ferret graves. Pretty sure they didn’t drink tea.”
He finally turned to regard me. His eyes were intense, his expression amused. “You think me mad? Not at all. Pure rationality is an encumbrance to genius, for science by nature is reductive and there are some concepts that must be considered in whole. This is not only the great divide between Eastern and Western philosophies, but my enemy’s greatest flaw. He believes that when you eliminate the impossible, what remains must be the truth; but what if the impossible refuses to be eliminated? What if the impossible rises from the dark of the grave and reaches for your throat?”
I couldn’t take my eyes off his. They were cold with hatred and aflame with passion at the same time. I swallowed.
“Professor Moriarty, I assume?” I managed.
Tervo blinked once, slowly, and his posture relaxed. He seemed to get smaller, somehow, and then he smiled at me. “Yes, that was him,” he said. “Since we can’t use the grounds, Lucky was talking about shooting a few extra scenes here in the graveyard. I was getting into character.”
“Very convincing. Your Moriarty is scary.”
He chuckled. “Well, thank you. The central conceit of the film is that Moriarty thinks he can beat Holmes with an army of zombies—admittedly a somewhat absurd idea—but I thought the reasoning behind it was interesting. What is the best tool to use against a rational man? The irrational, of course. Though Arthur Conan Doyle already examined the concept in The Hound of the Baskervilles, Lucky’s taking the opposite approach with this film.” He put his hands behind his back and started walking.