Toad Woman looked like she’d just swallowed a bad bug. I’m sure the soldier had probably never uttered a word of English in his life, and here he was doing Belle Beverly, right out of the blue.
Drawing the suitcase of money closer to him, Renard reached out and smacked me in the leg. “Give them the horn, you idiot!”
But I wasn’t about to do anything. In my mind, I was surrounded by flaming heads of taxidermy, a flippered freak coming at me with a knife. There’s paralyzed with fear and then there’s comatose with fear. I knew Flip was nearby.
The soldier continued:
“Feel the music in your feet
The gang on the beach has the beat
Let your hands show your honey
You’re no square, on the money.”
Toad Woman swallowed her bitter beetle and grabbed the soldier by the collar. She slapped him hard, three times. A burst of Korean admonishments followed, but the soldier was still in a trance. I could only imagine that her husband—perhaps Toad Man—was kept on a pretty short leash. Or in his case, in a small terrarium.
Renard stood and grabbed the box from my hand, thrusting it toward Toad Woman.
She shoved the singing soldier aside with a sneer, snatching the box and turning a flashlight beam on the horn.
From inside his tunic, the officer pulled a slender feather and a pocket-size ultraviolet lamp, the kind you can use to check currency. Toad Woman took the feather and stroked the horn. Then she examined it under the ultraviolet lamp. The black horn glowed white.
She grunted with satisfaction.
But then the officer began to sing. And the soldier chimed in. They sang together.
“C’mon, Cats, work those mittens
These ginchy girls are all but kittens
Doin’ the Mambo Rumba Two-Hand Jive
Way out, Daddy-o, it’s a dance alive.”
Toad Woman looked not just unhappy but scared by the impromptu karaoke duet. The little blue lamp fell from her chubby hand and hit the floor. The feather wafted slowly to her feet. Eyes ping-ponging from one singing soldier to the next, she snapped the box shut and clasped it to her chest. She started to back up. There was an emergency exit behind her, and she put a hand on the door handle.
From behind me, I heard what sounded like someone spitting, and then something whizzed, a speeding bee right past my ear.
Toad Woman paused. It looked like a toothpick was sticking out of her forehead, and she reached up to pull it out. Blood trickled down her broad nose.
Those goblin statues—pygmies! The realization and shock made me inhale my gum, and I started to choke.
I could hear Renard scrambling back toward Smiler and the gang, but a series of other spitting sounds and some shouts came from behind me. I had trouble making out what was going on back there—I was gagging on my gum and bent over in an effort to dislodge it. First the gum at the restaurant, now this.
Good thing, because when I finally managed to eject the Fruit Stripe gum from my epiglottis and glanced up, Toad Woman had two more toothpicks, this time in her chest. If I’d been standing, those toxiferous toothpicks would have been in my back. The toad fell to her knees—the poison from the darts was working its magic.
Time for Garth to vamoose. The exit was right in front of me, the soldiers were in a trance, Toad Woman was out of the game, and the pygmies were probably coming after me next.
You know, of all the things in this modern world to worry about, like slipping in the tub, falling from a ladder, being attacked by a rabid squirrel, I never thought I’d have to worry about pygmies. Bring on the squirrels, any day.
Glancing back into the dark, the only thing I could make out was the statue with the white sheet closing in on me. The ghost had big, blocky, corrective shoes.
Flip.
I lunged forward, snatched the Chinese box from Toad Woman’s grasp, and shouldered open the exit. I fell down some wooden stairs but came up on my feet and ran down the dark pier.
The air was briny, mixed with the smell of creosote from the wood pilings. The stars twinkled dully behind New York’s gauzy glow, and navigation lights from boats tracked across the twinkle of Governor’s Island and Manhattan’s downtown. I always used to like the combination of these sensations. Now the bayside ambience was a trap, water ahead and on both sides, Flip and his pygmies behind me.
“Garth!”
I made out a figure before me, but the voice wasn’t immediately familiar. Jim Kim? Should I race back toward the carnival, try to get past Flip and company? Was Smiler still back there with his goons?
Skidding to a stop a few strides from the stranger, I recognized his silhouette—tall, bald, gaunt, commanding: Waldo.
“Give Waldo the horn!”
In my panic, I was gasping for breath and beyond having any discussions. The freak show just kept getting freakier.
Shirley Temple exclaimed from somewhere behind me, “Well, if it isn’t Waldo! The King of Gaff!”
I turned. Framed by the kaleidoscope of rainbow lights from the carnival, Flip emerged from the gloom, his blue eyes glowing almost as white as the horn had, his flippers flexing menacingly at his sides like a pair of antsy boa constrictors. Behind him, a knot of small potbellied figures crouched, their blowguns at the ready.
“You shall not have it, Flip,” Waldo commanded.
“Who’s going to stop me?” Flip giggled.
There was a pause, and from Waldo’s direction I heard:
Squeak-heez, squeak-heez.
Flip’s clunky shoes stopped dead in their tracks.
Squeak-heez, squeak-heez.
Waldo Van Helsing—no kill saw and crossbow, just a penguin squeaky toy to destroy the monster and his goblins. My confidence level was running somewhere between zero and zero point zero. Flip might be afraid of the squeaky toy, but I doubted the pygmies were. These people were all nuts, I had to get out of there, and I wasn’t sure Waldo would let me pass without handing over the horn. Fine. You know, that’s what I should have done. But what did he want it for, really? Perhaps I actually did have enough of a connection with the horn to know it was bad and that nobody should have it. Let’s face it, even if it was all hokum, look how much trouble it had created already.
“You son of a bitch,” Flip’s little-girl voice stammered. “That asshole Fuzzy gave that to you, didn’t he?”
Squeak-heez, squeak-heez.
I wasn’t sticking around for this encounter. I had only one direction to go, and that was toward the end of the pier. Football style, I tucked the box in my armpit and made like Walter Payton. Waldo threw his arms in the air as if to scare me back, but I zigged, I zagged, I rolled, and made it past him. Who knew all those Sundays watching football might actually have a practical application?
I admit I was feeling somewhat exhilarated as I raced down the wooden gridiron, even more so when I saw the silhouette of a boat at the end of the pier. It looked like a tugboat because only what appeared to be a control tower was visible above the pier—must be low tide. There were some small murky lights on, but otherwise it was dark. Even if nobody was aboard, at least I might be able to hide there. Launch a rubber raft. Grab a life ring and dive overboard. Radio for help. Run up the Jolly Roger and sail for Danger Island, just me and Chongo, whatever. But it held possibilities.
A tugboat? By the city’s orange glow, I could see the deck as I approached. It was very long, narrow, and the sides sloped precipitously to the water. In the center was a wide, narrow coning tower. Hey, I may not be Howard Hughes, but I’ve been subjected to a number of Ice Station Zebra screenings myself. I know a submarine when I see it.
That’s when I dropped the Chinese box.
Was it the shock of being confronted with a North Korean submarine docked at a Brooklyn pier that made me drop it? Don’t ask me how, but it fell from my hand onto the dark pier. I heard it snap open, and I heard the horn tumble out. I slammed on the brakes, spun, and dropped to my knees in the vicinity of where I thought
the horn might be.
I felt boots on the pier, not running, but at a quick pace. The vibrations were getting stronger. My hands raced around the rough wood and crannies of the pier, splinters pricking me and the smell of creosote stinging my sinuses.
My hand brushed the box, I picked it up: empty, as I knew it would be. But I was close. I heard myself groan with frustration.
If I had a psychic connection with the thing, why couldn’t I find it?
That’s when the first boot kicked me, hard in the ribs. I didn’t know you could have the wind knocked out of you from the side, but trust me, you can. Both of my hands came up to my sternum as I rolled on my back. I could see the silhouette of two soldiers standing above me, against the orange haze of the New York night. They muttered something derisive in Korean and raised their submachine guns, but today must have been Boot Day aboard the Sea View because they kicked me again. I tried to roll away from them, my lungs still seized, searing pain in my sides from the beating my ribs were taking. Why hadn’t I just jumped off the side of the pier into that filthy water and made a swim for it?
I felt a lump under my face. My hand scrambled, grabbed hold of the lump.
My brain had just been feeling sorry for its miscalculations and the pain it was enduring, when I felt a familiar impulse. An overwhelming, consuming, volcanic loathing. Hatred and rage.
In my hand was the kving-kie horn, and the image of flames and glass exploding from Partridge’s windows gripped me.
I heard a shout, and the kicking stopped. I got to my hands and knees. This time you go for the water, Garth, before they start kicking you again. But when I glanced back to where the soldiers had been, they were gone. Their boots were still on the pier, but they were gone.
What the . . .
I looked around feverishly. Yes, but where is Flip? I could hear more shouting aboard the submarine, and a spotlight came on from its upper deck. Fortunately, it was focused farther down the pier. I looked back. No Waldo, no Flip, no pygmies. The path was clear, and I could see a torn fence next to the Castle Creep where I could get back into the lights and laughter of the carnival.
A loud ratcheting sounded, like a giant machine gun about to open fire. I don’t have any military training, unless you count the Weeblos, but I’ve watched enough war flicks and Rat Patrol to know what one sounds like. Could I somehow make it off the pier without them shooting me? It was only a matter of time before the spotlight’s sweeping beam came to rest on yours truly.
But somewhere back at the fair would be the cavalry. Had the pygmies got all of Smiler’s troop? Including the chauffeur, Pete Durban?
I eyed the water instead. No doubt a gauntlet of dirty Pampers, Optimo butts, greasy Q-tips, and used Band-Aids floated next to the pier. I was trying to get over my revulsion toward diving into that flotsam when Flip the Penguin Boy, Koreans with boots, and a giant machine gun tipped the balance in favor of immersion in briny ejecta. But my Pampers baptism wasn’t going to happen as long as that spotlight was on. It spilled enough light that I was plainly visible now to anybody on the submarine.
Two sets of boots were still sitting where the soldiers had been kicking me mid-pier. What was up with those boots, anyway? Had I made the soldiers disappear with the help of the horn? Or had Flip grabbed them? The main thing was that Flip was nowhere to be seen.
The kving-kie was still tight in my fist. I winced, and I held it out at the spotlight.
Please, if this thing works, let it be now!
I heard a pop, like the sound of a firecracker, and the light went slowly out, only a purple blotch where the bulb cooled. Excited voices shouted disappointment and anger from the submarine.
Had I done that? Did it do that? Or had they just shut off the light? Forget making a swim for it. Hightail it back to that hole and the fence.
But it was a long way back to terra firma, and I could hardly see in the sudden darkness.
How had I gotten into this jam? How could I keep this from happening again? If there was an again.
I realized that the answer was in my grasp. The damnable kving-kie, of course. Nobody wanted me—they wanted the horn. That’s what got me into this mess. The question of what to do? Pellucid.
After dragging myself to the pier’s edge and seeing that there actually were Pampers down there, I tried to stand and immediately doubled over. My gut was in a bad way, worse than I knew. So I scuttled crablike, cursing a blue streak, not a ding bust in the bunch.
Dyep deya vya boga duga seraza mat! Habit sometimes prevails, even under duress. I managed to get to my feet and began loping away from the pier’s edge toward the lights of the carnival. No more Walter Payton. More like Walter Brennan with a thumbtack in his shoe.
My eyes were blinded by the bright lights of the carnival, and I hoped that my silhouette wasn’t visible to the machine gunner.
It seemed impossibly far, loping like that, pain knifing my sides. Broken ribs for sure.
Squeak-heez.
Something was under my foot, and I knew what it was. I stooped and picked up the toy, shoving it in my pocket. Hell, it couldn’t hurt to have it on hand. It had caused Flip to stop in his tracks, though what ultimately transpired between him and Waldo was anyone’s guess. Mine was that the pygmies got Waldo and that he’d run back to the carnival before collapsing. But if so, why wasn’t Flip out here after me? He must have known about the submarine. Even he wouldn’t try to go up against all that.
From behind me I heard shouts and a few stray gunshots. I glanced back. Flashlights were bobbing along the deck of the sub and the end of the pier. The tromp of boots on the pier was like a stampede headed my way. They were giving chase.
It was like a nightmare where I couldn’t run, and the harder I tried, the farther away that hole in the fence seemed. Here I was in the good ol’ USA being chased down by Korean troops. It just didn’t seem possible. This couldn’t be happening.
Twenty feet from the fence, a figure appeared in the opening. The figure was surrounded by several men holding guns.
“Garth!”
It was Pete Durban. He trotted forward, grabbing my arm to help support me.
“Pete, the Koreans, they’re right behind me!”
He chuckled. “It’s going to be okay, Garth.”
“But . . .” I twisted my head back toward the squad of men approaching the carnival.
My eyes were blurry with the tears of pain and panic. All I could see were men in uniform. Except one. He had a tennis sweater tied over the shoulders, and when he stood before me, I could smell cloves. Sure enough, it was Jim Kim, and he was surrounded by soldiers. Even with my vision blurred, I could see that the soldiers were in commando gear, with ropes and night vision goggles. I could hear them talking into radios saying things like “target secure” and “captive hostiles” and “perimeter.” They were Americans.
Like butter in a microwave, I melted with relief, but Pete kept me from collapsing into a pool at his feet. I was surrounded by good guys for a change and wanted to burst out in tears. I was safe from Flip.
“Medic!” Kim yelled over his shoulder. Then to me: “Hey, buddy. You okay?”
I tried to speak but broke into a coughing fit instead.
“Garth, do you still have it?” Kim patted me on the shoulder. “The kving-kie? Do you still have it?”
I ignored the question. “Did you get Flip?”
“We will. Got the nasty munchkins.” Pete held up one of their toothpicks. “One of the little buggers hit me with this.”
“How come . . .”
“Hey, I get bit by snakes and poisonous critters all the time. I have a high tolerance for toxins. So, amigo, tell us—where is it?”
We stepped into the light of the carnival, Kim following. His troops stayed out on the pier, searching it with flashlights.
“Did Flip have it?” Kim grabbed my elbow. “Did Renard have it? Is it out on the pier somewhere? Who had the kving-kie last?”
“I did.”
“Did,” I repeated. “All I’ve got now is this.”
Squeak-hee, squeak-hee.
They stared quizzically at the rubber penguin.
“So who has it now?” Kim persisted. “The horn—what happened to it?”
“I dropped it out there, then they started kicking me. Maybe it fell in the river, I dunno.”
Kim cocked an ear closer to me, like he hadn’t heard right. “You—”
“I don’t have it, I dropped it out there.”
Kim looked at me like I’d just told him his mother was actually a secret agent. Hmm. Maybe she was.
“Divers!” He dashed back out through the hole in the fence and started shouting orders to the troops. “Get the SEALs over here!”
Pete tightened his grip, helping me along. And I felt him vibrating. Deep in his chest, he was laughing.
“Garth . . .” he began mirthfully. Then he leaned in and whispered in my ear: “Good job.”
Chapter 26
As the Navy medics looked me over, wrapping my torso and ribs in Ace bandages, the carnival was almost cleared of revelers and employees. NYPD was all over the place and had created a gauntlet at the exit. I saw them crowd the pygmies in a paddy wagon, their heads down and shoulders drooping like kids caught sneaking into the drive-in. The cops were still looking for Flip, but I couldn’t have been safer with so many of them around. Anyway, I was sure he must have escaped. Perhaps he swam off as he did in Maine. The horn was gone, I didn’t have it, and Flip—wherever he was—must have known that. No reason to come after me anymore.
A makeshift first-aid center had been set up in the ring-toss concession, and Waldo was laid out on a stretcher waiting for an ambulance. He was still alive, probably because he was such a big man that the poison from those little arrows wasn’t sufficient to do him in. He was unconscious, arms folded across his chest like Bela Lugosi taking a catnap. I hoped they’d cart him off before he came to and started up with his Svengali act. A series of ambulances had already come and gone to take away the more-serious victims, like Renard, Smiler, Toad Woman, and the turtlenecks. I had no idea what their conditions were and, frankly, didn’t care.
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