Pipsqueak

by Brian M. Wiprud

  Understandably nervous, I gave it a try, the card trembling in my outstretched hand. The card was from Dudley, all right. It glowed blue for a second and then went out. But nothing happened. I assumed, I prayed, that the reason it didn’t discharge was that the target had to be human. Then again, maybe the card was a dud, pun intended.

  Footsteps clip-clopped down the hall and stopped in front of my door. I ditched the card in the pocket of my bowling shirt and sat back on the bed. A key turned in the lock and the door opened to reveal Roger Elk, with the speakeasy doorman right behind.

  “Good, you’re awake,” Roger Elk chimed. “Time for a chat? Wait outside, Mortimer.” Mr. Heavy went back out into the hall reluctantly, and Roger sat down next to me. “Let me just say, Garth, that I’m sorry for having to abuse your trust.”

  “Oh, hey, don’t worry about it, Roger. What’s an attorney for if not to put his client in harm’s way at every turn?”

  “You have every right to be angry, Garth.”

  “In case you don’t get it, Roger, I hardly feel that I need your approval to be angry.”

  “Yes, you’ve been a pawn. But once you stumbled upon Pipsqueak and wouldn’t stay away . . .” He shrugged. “You know, you didn’t have to go to the Church of Jive. But what’s done is done. You did what you had to do, and we’ve done what we had to do. But know this: There’s a lot at stake here, Garth.”

  “Fine, Roger. You people are all worked up over a conspiracy theory whereby the government is brainwashing everybody with color TV and stealing Omaha cow anuses in late-night raids. Whatever. Believe what you want. But you’re not getting Pipsqueak until I know why you want him.”

  Roger Elk eyed me a moment, calculating. “Very well, Garth, I won’t try to sell you. From your position, I’m sure it’s hard for you to understand the scope and seriousness of what’s going on here. Now try to see things from our perspective. We need that puppet to prevent a terrible threat to the lives and well-being of millions upon millions of Americans. Tell me, Garth. What lengths would you go to if you had the ability to stop a worldwide catastrophe?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Okay, let’s get to the gist. I’ll tell you why the squirrel is important. But first we need to know that you can take us to the squirrel.”

  My chest tightened. If they were willing to tell me the big secret, they probably had no intention of granting me parole. Options? Life in prison? More likely a mud nap. “I not only can take you to that goddamn squirrel but will. If you tell me.”

  Roger Elk nodded quietly for a moment and then slapped his knees. “I’ll start from the beginning.” He stood and leaned against the door.

  “Good. But remember, I sat in on one of those ‘church’ services, so I know about the color-TV bit,” I admonished. “Tie in why you need the squirrel to combat color-flash hypnosis and what this has to do with naturopaths.”

  “As you wish, but I will defer the technical aspects to Dr. Fulham. You know, the man who—”

  “Right, the checked suit.”

  “The checked suit, yes. So I’ll condense. While the U.S. and its allies were developing and perfecting color-flash technology, the Soviets were developing countermeasures using sound to cancel the effects. There is a long history in Asia of using vibrational medicine in place of the more invasive acupuncture, and the Russian experiments found that certain tones or compilations of resonant frequencies affect the sphenoid bone. This small bone in the skull cradles the sella turcia, a cup that holds the pituitary gland. A neural-hormone reaction is triggered in the hypothalamus—that’s where sleep, body temperature—”

  “I get the idea. You think you can cleanse the mind of the color flash with sound. The same way people like Tyler Loomis think they can cure nail fungus and migraines with tuning forks.”

  “Allow me to continue. The hypothalamus—while not necessarily the transmitter—is the emitter of the individual’s chi or odic force.”

  “Life force?”

  “Yes. These tones that we’re trying to produce—the ones the Russians developed—can’t be reproduced with tuning forks. The wave pattern produced by forks is wrong for the phonophoresic effect. But there are special tuning spheres, which, when toned in a particular sequence, create just the right tones at just the right frequency. They’re made of a special hydrogen metal that only the Soviets were able to create.”

  “Hydrogen metal? It doesn’t exist.” I once asked Angie how come there aren’t any solid forms of some of the other elements that jewelers might use. I suggested hydrogen, and she said that while scientists had tried, nobody had succeeded in making solidified hydrogen.

  “At very low temperatures, hydrogen goes from liquid directly to a frozen liquid. At higher temperatures, it turns to gas. The Carnegie Institute failed in its attempt to use ‘diamond anvils’ to forge hydrogen using extreme pressures, and some said if it exists at all it may only be found deep within the gravitational crush of Jupiter. But, using controlled, underground hydrogen-bomb explosions, the Soviets succeeded. That is, after some underground tests, they discovered an abundance of perfectly round hydrogen globes. Spheres.”

  “Stable at normal air pressure and room temperature?”

  “Yes. They are opaque, with a vibrational quality enhanced by their superconductivity. Bookerman was formerly a Soviet technician involved in tests of the hydrogen spheres on prisoners. He effected his escape from Russia in 1958 with three spheres.”

  “And immediately set about hosting a children’s cartoon show? He doesn’t even have an accent.”

  “Like any number of Russians involved in secret work, he was taught to converse fluently in English. He used to interpret clandestine recordings of U.S. scientists. Puppeteering was a folk art taught to him in Siberia by his father, a circus performer. Making puppets from animals and using them to illustrate folklore was a traditional pastime in his Yakut clan. When he decided to take the spheres and escape the Soviet Union, he hid them in the puppets to help get them out of the country. And upon arriving in the United States, he couldn’t very well go back to his previous line of work. So he used his hobby and his family background in the circus to make a living as General Buster. Did you hold the puppet in your hands?”

  “Yes.”

  “Notice anything, ah, unusual about it?”

  “Head was very light. Bookerman hid the spheres in the heads of his puppets.”

  “Exactly. Three sizes of spheres, three sizes of puppets. This was not only a convenient hiding place but also ample protection from being struck by a hard object. The fur and batting acted as a cushion that would keep them from toning accidentally. The spheres are extremely light, and so nobody ever noticed anything unusual about the puppets. Because they belonged to him and were kept in his dressing room, this hiding place seemed ideal. When the show was canceled suddenly, he went to the studio, only to find himself locked out of his dressing room and the puppets confiscated. He tried to get the puppets in a legal battle but lost. That’s where I met Bookerman. I’m his attorney.” Roger Elk put his hand on my shoulder. “Satisfied, Garth?”

  “But you already had two spheres. Why get so hot and bothered over the one in Pipsqueak?”

  “The desired effect can only be obtained using all three sizes. The Soviets tested hundreds of spheres before they found that these three were perfectly matched. For the longest time, only Loomis and maybe one or two others—who are now dead—knew that the spheres were in the puppets.”

  “How?”

  “Loomis was a sonopuncturist. He worked for Bookerman, trying to help him understand the full potential of the two spheres he had in his possession. He was in Bookerman’s confidence but turned on him when he learned there was a third sphere. Loomis wanted the spheres for his own purposes.”

  “So why are Sloan, the naturopaths, and Palihnic trying to get these spheres?”

  “They’re valuable. They have medicinal potential, and I’m sure government scientists would be very keen
to—”

  “Now, when Sloan came to me, he said you guys actually had something other than battling color TV in mind. He said that you’re attempting to do the same thing that the color-flash people are trying to do to the public. In reality, aren’t you competing with color flash, pitting sound against visuals in a bid to brainwash America?”

  “Not at all, Garth,” Roger Elk chortled.

  “You’re sure the Russkies weren’t developing this for use on their own citizens? You said they experimented on prisoners back before 1958. Color TV wasn’t even on the air yet.”

  “But it existed in developmental prototypes, which the Russians obtained, and they made the prisoners watch color TV and monitored their brain waves after treating them to the tones.” Roger stood, impatient.

  “Uh-huh. But lemme ask you this: I thought nicotine and high-protein diets were the way to cleanse the color flashes from our systems. Why now the spheres?”

  “HDTV. High-definition television, the ‘next wave.’ The color flash is more saturated, more intense, and ultimately more devastating. They’re taking it to the next level. As it is now, they’re making do with subliminal domination. HDTV will suppress independent thought utterly, completely. Garth, you’ve got to give us that puppet. We hope to test it soon on a prime-time HDTV broadcast, and we need the last sphere to effect the tone. To block the color flash.”

  “How? What’s the delivery system?”

  Roger Elk sighed, then went to the door and knocked. “Okay, Mortimer.” He turned to me and straightened his bolo tie, a grin flickering. “I could tell you, but, ah, then we’d have to kill you.” Mr. Heavy opened the door and gave me a menacing squint. The growl was implied.

  My lawyer waved me from the cell. “Mr. Carson here is ready to take a drive, Mortimer.”

  I stepped out of the room, and Mr. Heavy a.k.a. Mortimer latched on to my collar and jammed something hard into my side that felt (and hurt) like a gun. I was willing to give Mortimer the benefit of the doubt and didn’t bother to confirm the weapon, verbally or visually.

  As we coursed through the paneled halls and tromped down the steps to the garage, I was beyond being reasonable about all this. In short, I was fed up with getting shoved around, tired of being scared. The swell of resentment was starting a wave of hatred for these conspiracy-theory idiots for what they were putting me through. God help them if they’d put one finger on Angie.

  My faith in Bookerman’s good intentions was next to nil. Maybe it’s just me, but any guy who can so casually order a man drowned in mud, or maintain a crew of henchmen, doesn’t get the philanthropist’s halo from me. Quite the contrary.

  We got into the Lincoln, and Roger Elk opened the elevator. I tried to keep my nerve. The object was to get out of the building. It was the only way to escape—no way was I going to relive the disappointment I felt when I hit those glass doors. But now I had Mortimer to contend with. My odds against the Bing and Bowler duo were much better.

  As before, the guy with the gun sat behind me, and after Roger Elk got us in and up the elevator, he took the passenger seat. When the garage doors opened, I saw it was night. “Is this the same day I came in here? What time is it?”

  “Same day, eight o’clock. So, where will we find the squirrel?”

  Although I’d considered turning Pipsqueak over and then going to the cops, there were a couple of things blocking that option. First, I didn’t want to take them back to my place and risk Angie’s involvement. Second, if I couldn’t trust my lawyer, could I trust the police? Where did this cult/conspiracy begin and end? Third, once they obtained the spheres, they probably didn’t intend to let me go. Fourth, if Elk’s absurd story had any validity, I’d be handing over a weapon of potential mass social destruction. Roger had asked me before what I’d be willing to do to stop such a scheme, and now I was asking myself the same question.

  I needed to find a good escape venue. I might have tried taking them to Nicholas’s—he’d be just the kind who might be able to get me out of this jam. But what if he wasn’t home? Besides, I needed a place with maximum options, which meant to me a place teeming with people and portals of escape, but also a place where I might have been able to send Pipsqueak for safekeeping. Maybe someplace I could have sent Otto. . . .

  That little devil was being very useful of late.

  “Grand Central Station.”

  “Where?”

  “A guy who works for me runs a hot-dog stand there Tuesday afternoons. He was at the apartment this morning when Sloan came by. I wrapped the squirrel in a plastic bag and told him to take it with him for safekeeping. With any luck, we’ll be able to catch him before he folds up the stand.”

  Roger Elk studied me a moment, then said, “Drive on.” He pulled a cell phone and dialed a number. “It’s me, Roger Elk. Send some boys to Grand Central. . . . Yes, they’ll do. Have them meet us at the 42nd Street entrance. We need to keep our bird from flying the cage.”

  Chapter 22

  Busy as Grand Central Station” is a dated simile. Since the building’s restoration and 1998 rededication, you have to say, “Busy as Grand Central Terminal.” Associated with this hackneyed expression is the Main Terminal, the kind of soaring stone room that would give Michelangelo an itchy brush finger. Below the canyonlike walls, at ground level, two sides are lined with orderly rows of old-timey ticket booths and train gates, while wide-arched passages open on all four sides. In the center of the room is a multisided information kiosk, a hefty, four-faced gilt clock on top so you can see how late you are. Commuters strut their Manhattan savvy each day through the Main Terminal, a swarm of determined, briefcased vectors who by sheer force of will and steely nerve never collide with one another or even the bumbling tourists.

  Most of the station is actually composed of passages leading from the Main Terminal to subways, stores, subterminals, and the street. Overlapping matrixes of low, vaulted, and often sloping tunnels give the inside layout the look of the Paris sewers gone dry.

  I could only assume that Otto’s hot-dog stand was in one of the low-rent but high-traffic niches. Where, I didn’t know, and as I pulled over next to the 42nd Street entrance, I explained this uncertainty to my captors.

  Roger Elk’s eyes narrowed as he motioned me out and into the company of a reception committee comprising four tall, lean, crew-cut gents. All wore different dinner jackets, some plaid, and I caught the view of at least one cummerbund. They smelled of bay rum. Nicholas’s mummies unwrapped, no doubt.

  The Four Lads ushered a kid with a spit curl and porkpie hat into the Lincoln’s driver’s seat. In the near distance I spied a cop marching our way, no doubt peeved by the Lincoln parked at a bus stop.

  “Try the Vanderbilt entrance. We’ll meet you there,” Roger Elk told the kid. Porkpie roared away under the Park Avenue overpass. The cop paused and was immediately accosted by confused tourists. He hadn’t come close enough for me to test my nerve. My escorts led me behind the cop’s back and into the terminal.

  Roger Elk led the way to the Main Terminal and up to the information kiosk. The Cummerbunds, with Mortimer as point man, led our wedge effortlessly through the throng. Rush hour was past, but the place still hummed.

  Roger Elk waited twenty seconds in a short line to pose his question.

  “Where do they sell a hot dog?” he enunciated into the booth.

  The kiosk woman chewed her gum distractedly. A big name tag reading Heidi Moos hung lazily from her vest.

  “Wherever there’s buns, I guess, sweetie. Ha!”

  Roger Elk gave her a grim look, and Heidi was suddenly miffed.

  “Oh, lighten up! Jeez! There’s a cart near the Vanderbilt exit.” She jabbed a pencil over her shoulder.

  Roger Elk waved us after him, and I fingered the Dudco™ Card in my pocket. I was running out of time and had to choose my opportunity soon or lose it entirely. Once we got to the hot-dog cart and Roger Elk asked for the squirrel, Otto would be confused or, worse yet, asinine, and I’d get h
auled back to do some mud snorkeling.

  We crossed the terminal, and I began trailing to the rear of the flying wedge, glancing back at the Cummerbund I’d zap first. My plan was to take the back door out of the wedge, forcing those in front to scramble past the fallen comrade once I popped him with the Dudco™ Card.

  As we moved down the passage, the Cummerbund behind nudged me onward, apparently aware of my foot-dragging. Looking ahead, over the heads of the crowds, I could see a red and white sign for Wiener King.

  Pedestrians parted in our path, and my heart surged when I drew a bead on the lunch wagon and the striped jacket and fez of the attendant. His back was turned to us as he wiped down the frankfurter rotisserie with a rag.

  Roger Elk knocked on the counter, and my ears rang with dread as I slowly drew the Dudco™ Card from my pocket.

  The attendant turned, and Otto was not Otto. Otto was Nicholas, and he winked at me from under the black tassel of his red fez. You could hear my toes scrunch in my oxbloods as I tried not to register any surprise.

  “Red hots, boys?” Nicholas leaned on the counter. “Let’s see, six?”

  “Otto?” Roger Elk asked Nicholas, whose fading injuries had made him look like Uncle Fester.

  “Hey . . .” a Cummerbund began.

  “What the . . .” another one added.

  “That’s that guy . . .” a third complained.

  I felt my right hand pull the Dudco™ Card between the fingers of my left. “One . . .”

  Nicholas’s pupils widened at the crew-cut crew, realizing he’d been made. His hand darted out at Roger Elk; I saw a flash and felt a crackle in my fillings. Nicholas had zapped him with a stun gun wrapped in his rag.

  “Two . . .”

  My fillings buzzed again, and to my right I heard Mortimer go “WOOF” when the wind got kicked out of him. “Pizdyets!” Otto said, somewhere behind me. I didn’t have time to turn because I caught sight of Angie darting from the pedestrian crowd with a newspaper, which she pressed into the side of first one, then another Cummerbund. They yelped, eyes crossed, and crumpled stiffly to the floor. I heard another zap from Otto’s direction.