Lorna Ellison, my snake gal in Phoenix, had referred me to half a dozen people, and I’d resorted to looking for dead specimens that I could have mounted. Pete Durban, a guy I know from U.S. Fish and Wildlife, collects poisonous critters and owns a couple of corals, but I doubted very much whether he’d let me stuff one of his prized pets. I found myself calling Dade County Animal Control agents, asking if they’d had any calls to dispose of eastern coral snakes. Nope, just nuisance gators, the stray saltwater croc, and a pit bull or three. Hadn’t had a snake call since a boa strangled its owner, an off-duty carnival performer called Sheena the Viper Girl. Texas has the next highest incidence of bites from corals, and I was about to ring up the San Antonio Animal Shelter when the front buzzer sounded.
As you can see, life was back to normal at our abode, and I was glad of it. My foibles were under control and I felt comfortably on track to forget all about General Buster and his pals. Even a hopelessly nostalgic dealer like me can be scared straight by a dead woman on his doorstep and his brother used as a punching bag.
The buzzer sounded again. It was about ten in the morning. Angie was up at Acme Crafts buying a hand piece for her flexible shaft and draw plates, which in itself wouldn’t take long except she and Katie the salesperson talk a blue streak. Otto had gone to get his uniform for a part-time job selling hot dogs at Grand Central Terminal. “Veemin, milliontz of veemin, Garv! They go to verk, very much hurry, walk fest, eh? Veemin walkink fest: very nice, eh?” I think a Victoria’s Secret catalog would put Otto into an orgasmic coma.
The day was sunny, but cool and breezy like the best of October days. The worst are rainy, cold autumn days when you realize May is the light at the end of winter’s long tunnel. Most Americans seemed to have pumpkins on their porches, leaf piles burning in their gutters, and Thanksgiving on their minds.
“Who is it?” I hollered into the squawk box.
“Open up! Hurry,” the box crackled back.
Boy, the Jehovah’s Witnesses could be so pushy. “Who is this?”
“Dammit, open up, Carson. Please!” It was a high, wheezy voice, but I couldn’t tell whether it was male or female.
“Not unless I know you.”
“You don’t know me, but I have an urgent package for you.”
This was over the top even for a Witness, and the voice sounded earnestly troubled. So I went into the hallway and opened the vestibule door. Before me stood a soft-looking man with thick white hair, a narrow jaw, white eyebrows, and pale eyelashes, pale skin, full lips, and dark eyes. Not an albino, but definitely at the far end of the spectrum from George Hamilton. He had on a baggy beige suit, black shirt, thin tie, and two-tone shoes. A Panama hat was clutched in one hand, a wicker basket under the other. The basket was filled with crumpled paper and looked like a small wastebasket.
“Can I help you?” I picked up my mail from atop the radiator in the foyer as I watched him mop his brow with a polka-dot hanky.
He thrust the wastebasket to my chest. “Take this. Big risk, but there’s nothing for it.” He spoke quite loudly. “We’ve got to get it to safety. You know a man named Palihnic?”
I looked from the wastebasket in my hands up to the stranger. “What is this?”
Whitey peered up and down the block, looking to see if he had been followed.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You have what you wanted. Is there a back way out of here?”
“Whoa!” I barred the way into the hall with my arm. “You’re going to have to do some explaining before I show you the back way out. Now, calm down and tell me what this is all about.”
“Can I at least come in, have a glass of water? I have to hurry back before they notice it’s gone.”
I considered a moment and thought it unlikely that Whitey had the gumption or the wherewithal to cause me much trouble. “Awright.”
Whitey was momentarily flummoxed by the number of animals staring at him when he came into our living room—not an uncommon reaction. I’ve known people who can’t sleep with a room full of taxidermy staring at them. He perched on a stool at the soda counter while I fetched water.
“You kill all these?” he mumbled nervously.
“I collect, rent, sell . . . here.” I plunked down the glass and he drank greedily, eyeing all the birds of prey hanging from the ceiling. I noticed an envelope in the mail pile addressed to me that wasn’t a bill and picked it out for closer examination. I felt a wallet-sized card inside. Probably my new bank card, I thought. “So, Mr. . . . ?”
“Sloan.”
“Mr. Sloan, why have you brought me a wicker waste bin?”
“Don’t be stupid, please, Carson,” he gasped between chugalugs.
It was then that I saw among the crumpled paper what appeared to be an eye. Stuffing the envelope in my pocket, I stirred the papers in the basket, uncovering two bulging eyes. I shuddered, then spilled the paper onto the counter. Out tumbled Pipsqueak.
Yeah, I was a little surprised, and I think I said something like “Yak!” I gently slid a hand under the puppet and picked him up. He was surprisingly light, especially the head. I held the little black sticks to his hands and made his paws wiggle. Up close, I could see how much hair had been lost over the years and how his tail had probably been replaced at some point. His goggle eyes were actually purple painted pupils on a yellowed white plastic base. The India-rubber red tongue sticking out the side of his mouth was dried and cracked. The buckteeth were real but outsize for a squirrel, perhaps lower incisors from a deer or elk. A string on the back manipulated his mouth, and when I pulled it, the mouth fell open. I could see that the black elastic in the back of his mouth had broken many years ago. Pipsqueak’s white belly fur was yellowed, and the whole pelt was in need of cleaning. He smelled strongly of mothballs.
It was hard to believe. Pipsqueak, in my hands! I wanted to savor the moment, and yet, to be honest, actually having him in my possession wasn’t as satisfying as I would have thought. The emotion was a little . . . sad. Pipsqueak demystified?
And of course, after Marti’s murder and Nicholas’s run-in, I was a little scared at being dragged back into the retro imbroglio. Just days ago, I was after Pipsqueak. Now he was after me.
My thoughts and emotions tumbled over each other, but I managed to get the crucial question out first.
“What’s so important about Pipsqueak the Nutty Nut?”
The look I got was vexed. “Don’t toy with me, Carson. Surely you came looking for the puppet for the same reasons as Loomis.”
I leaned in close to Whitey’s face. “I’m outside the loop, Sloan. Tell me: What’s with the squirrel?”
“It’s Bookerman. He needs it. For the Church.” Whitey was getting testy.
It took me a moment to register. “Fine, I can see why Bookerman wants his little pal Pipsqueak to comfort him in his later years. But what does the Church want with him? If it’s not just a puppet, tell me what it is!”
I handed him another glass of water, and after he’d taken a long sip, he gave me a stern, penetrating gaze, the white eyebrows taut. I’d seen these Perry Mason eyes before, heard the loud squeeze-box voice, and I took a step back when I realized where. I probably made another one of my erudite exclamations, like Gak!
“You’re Cola Woman!”
His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
“The woman at T3! But you’re not a woman. You were dressed up like a woman!”
His eyes rolled slightly. “Got a problem with that?”
“You killed Tyler Loomis to get the squirrel! And I saw you at the Church of Jive the night Marti Folsom was murdered.”
“Chill out!” Whitey wheezed. “Loomis was after the squirrel to stop Bookerman. He’d been trying to get Pipsqueak, the last puppet, just like me. I got there first, but you happened by, started fucking around with that penguin. It’s your fault Loomis is dead. Well, his too. If you’d both just minded your own damn business . . .”
“What did he want with Pipsqueak?”
“Why did you bring me Pipsqueak, anyway?”
Whitey’s gaze hardened. “A mutual friend said I should bring it to you and that you’d get it to Nicholas. I thought you understood.”
“What mutual friend?”
“Someone on the inside, inside the Church, that’s all.”
Could this be Nicholas’s informer? “Why do you want Palihnic to have him?”
“He’s with the naturopaths, of course.”
“Naturopaths?” I snapped my fingers. “Loomis, he had a tuning fork. He was a sonopuncturist, which means he was a naturopath, right? Okay, so you killed him to keep the squirrel from the naturopaths. Now you’ve had a change of heart and want to give Pipsqueak to them? Why?” I wasn’t entirely sure what the heck I was talking about. Naturopaths? Puppet healing? Lamb Chop for lumbago, Beany & Cecil for neuritis?
Sloan’s gaze drifted to someplace far away. “I thought . . . I used to think that Scuppy was on a righteous path. But now I know better. I thought you did too. The Church doesn’t mean to free anybody. They just want to be the slave master!” Sloan’s white eyebrows pinched together, sweat running down his cheeks. “I’ll take that squirrel now, Carson.” I could tell from his deportment that he didn’t feel the matter was open to discussion.
Sloan was standing at the end of the soda bar, and I was behind it. No way out unless I jumped the bar, which I could do, but probably not fast enough to escape.
“So who’ll you give him to now?”
“Most likely? The river. I can’t find Palihnic, and if you don’t understand any of this, it’s obvious Palihnic couldn’t trust you. So how can I trust you? You’d probably call the police. Then the NSA would get him. It can’t go back to Bookerman.” Sloan produced a sleek black pistol, as I was afraid he might.
The NSA? I could see myself asking Dudley if he knew why the government would want a squirrel puppet, only to hear his evasive mumblings because he’d personally worked on Ronald Reagan’s billion-dollar Secret Squirrel Initiative.
“Hand it over, Carson. I’ll do you like Loomis if I have to.”
The Nutty Nut to be forever interred in the ooze of the East River? The child inside me wouldn’t let go of Pipsqueak for anything. So when the adult handed it over, Sloan had to struggle to pull it from my grasp.
“Let go!” he wheezed.
“Sorry! Reflex,” I mumbled, and let go. I wasn’t as sorry as you might have thought. Having held him in my hands, having felt that fur, seen the cracked tongue—getting Pipsqueak back seemed somehow more possible once I’d actually held him.
Sloan backed to the door. “Better for you, Carson. You don’t want any part of this.”
“That’s what I keep saying.” I flapped my arms helplessly.
He reached a hand back for the doorknob, just as a small man in a red and white striped jacket and cherry-red fez shouldered the door open from without. The door slammed Sloan’s arm, which spun him around and flung Pipsqueak into the air. Sloan stumbled back, facing hot-dog man extraordinaire: Otto.
From that moment on, I abandoned the remotest inclination to buy a Rottweiler. Otto was surprised, but swiftly registered the gun, reacted, and lunged headlong at Sloan’s neck, yelling, “Aiee!”
Sloan fell back, Otto on top of him, the gun waving in the air. A shot went off, a puff of feathers drifted off an owl overhead.
I saw Pipsqueak bounce off Fred the lion and hit the floor, the puppet’s bulging eyes imploring me to come save him from Howlie and Possum. I also saw my chance to wrestle the dangerous gun from Sloan’s extended hand. I hesitated.
Sloan hit Otto in the back of the head with the flat of the gun. That’s when the attack dog made his coup de grâce. Otto slammed his forehead into Sloan’s, the latter went limp, and I lunged for and snatched away the gun.
Otto got to his feet slowly, forcing a smile and rubbing the back of his neck.
“KGB pizdyets, nah holidyets, Garv.”
Chapter 20
After dusting off Pipsqueak, I picked up the phone to call the police but heard Roger Elk’s admonition echo in my brain. I called him first. He wasn’t in, so I left an urgent message with his service.
“Now what’ll I do?” I groaned, holding Sloan’s gun by the barrel. Sloan was on his back, partially conscious, trying to blink his eyes open while Otto bound his hands behind his back with clear plastic packing tape.
“I dunno, Garv. Police, maybe, eh?”
“Okay, so I call the police and tell them this is the guy who shot Loomis, here’s the gun.” I nodded. “Right? This is probably the gun that killed Loomis. Of course, I’m holding the gun, it’s got my prints on it now, and the police are sure I was there. They still might think I killed Loomis. And Marti, she’s dead and can’t identify Cola Boy Sloan. Now it’s just my story, in which I say Sloan, disguised as a farm girl, struggled with and shot Loomis to steal a puppet and that Sloan may well have killed Marti, or at least may know who did it.”
“But why Garv kill Loomis?” Otto stood, satisfied that Cola Boy Sloan was well secured, and picked up his red fez. It said Wiener King across the front.
I handed Otto an ice pack for the back of his neck. “If I don’t call the police, I’m obstructing justice, I’m harboring a fugitive or something . . .”
“I smoke.” Otto slouched out the back door.
The phone rang. It was Roger Elk, and I explained the Sloan episode.
“Garth, don’t do anything until I get there.” He hung up before I could ask whether I should call the cops.
Sloan started to wriggle and cough and rolled onto his stomach with a low moan.
I looked Pipsqueak hard in the eyes. Obviously, there was more to this puppet than could be seen at first glance. Maybe something inside his head? There wasn’t room anywhere else to hide something. The rest of him was just pelt, and I couldn’t feel anything out of the ordinary there. But the back of his head had heavy stitching through the fur, and it had obviously been done hastily. It would have to be carefully cut so as not to damage the pelt further. Squeezing his head lightly, I tried to discern what might be inside, but under a layer of batting I felt only a hard, uniform core. The thought of cutting open his head made me slightly dizzy, but it seemed the only way to figure out what all this was about, since nobody would tell me. And ultimately, it was probably the best way to save Pipsqueak himself. The sooner his head was emptied, separated from whatever the contraband was, the sooner they’d stop chasing him. And, of course, the better chance I’d have of holding on to the squirrel.
But I was still conflicted, and mostly preoccupied with hiding Pipsqueak until I could get rid of Sloan. Lord knew who might pop through the door next.
I don’t have a wall safe, but there are some loose floorboards in the living room that open into a cavity under the floor. Sloan was on the other side of the couch and his view was blocked, unless he could see through the narrow space under the couch. So I nestled Pipsqueak in a dish towel, wheeled my lion Fred off the carpet, lifted the boards with a butter knife, and wedged the puppet between the joists. As an afterthought, I tucked the gun in with him. It seemed a particularly sinister tableau. Squirrel puppet and a gun. From the way things were going, I’d have said Pipsqueak was the more dangerous of the two. With the floorboards back in place, I rolled out the carpet and wheeled Fred back into place atop the squirrel’s hideaway.
The buzzer sounded. Roger Elk must not have been far off when he called. I buzzed the front door, and a moment later the apartment door swung open. It wasn’t Roger.
“Well, howdy do?” Bing intoned, smirking at his friend Bowler as they entered. Bing was in a yellow sweater and bow tie, the skimmer tilted rakishly on his head. Bowler was still in his Lucky’s Speed Shop shirt.
Great. More pistols, but mine (Sloan’s) was under the floor. Like I would have done any
thing with it.
“Where’s the puppet, son?” Bing sniffed.
“Not here,” I said, hands half raised.
“Where?” Bowler prodded. His nasal voice sounded like the one on my message machine.
I thought a second. “Not here. If I do lead you to him, I need to be sure you won’t kill me.”
Bing adjusted his skimmer and exchanged glances with Bowler.
“Let’s go, champ.” Bowler helped Sloan to his feet and shoved him out the door.
“After you, sport.” Bing waved his gun at me. “We’re going to take in the sights from your convertible. Top up, don’tcha know.”
My Rottweiler was still out back, probably on his second smoke. I could only hope he wouldn’t come barging into the room and get shot. And thank the Lord for the Acme Crafts yak sessions with Katie for keeping Angie away while this was going on. At least Roger Elk was on his way and knew the score. Between him and the cops, and maybe Nicholas, they might just find me. Assuming these guys didn’t mean to kill me. Ransom? Me for Pipsqueak? They obviously knew Nicholas, but did they know he was my brother? I guessed not, so I wasn’t sure whether they thought there was any leverage there for ransom. Ultimately, I think they grabbed me because they didn’t think I was telling the truth and were going to question me further. Torture? I shuddered, turning my thoughts away from soldering irons and hobby tools.
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