“We need to make the most of it,” Dirk continued. And then, unable to contain himself, a smirk emerged; the left and the right outer whiskers of the mustache twitched in turn as he winked at Svetlana and said, “I know some of us will!”
All of her Slavic steeliness depleted, Svetlana rested her head on Dirk’s shoulder and began to cry buckets as he put his arm around her. Merlin was confounded by this display and felt even more anxiety than he had just thinking this was the last flight of the summer and that he was bringing a full complement of devices in as discreet a black nylon side pack as he could find.
They boarded the Airmadillo, Dirk helping the distraught Svetlana into the passenger compartment, then holding the door open for Merlin.
“Hey, whatchoo got in the bag, junior birdman?” Dirk asked.
The question surprised Merlin and was particularly unsettling as he was in medias res boarding the blimp. Eyes wide and dumbfounded, he attempted an explanation, but all he could do was look at the black heavy-duty zipper on the side pack and say, “Zipper!” Immediately the idea of food came to him and he said, “Snacks!”
“Zipper snacks, huh? Well, okay, we’ve got some of our own zipper snacks in the back, too!” rejoined the captain.
The mustache gave a quick double twitch, and Dirk winked at Merlin with his signature fiendish grin. With a professional-sounding “All aboard!” he gestured for the big man to take a seat inside. As Dirk boarded he said with military frankness, “Alright, last mission. Remember, team, we need to make the most of it.” As he settled into the pilot’s seat to prepare for takeoff he said under his breath, “I know I will.”
The Airmadillo was freed once again from its terrestrial bonds. In her seat in the rear of the passenger pod, Svetlana tried to fix her mascara with the aid of a small lighted mirror plucked from her Dolce and Gabbana clutch. Merlin sprawled across a seat in the fore of the passenger area and tried to savor all the wonder of blimp takeoff as he knew this was a special mission.
When they were at cruising altitude, Dirk handed off flight duties to Merlin, and as usual, he joined Svetlana in the aft of the passenger compartment where she had arranged antique tortoiseshell caviar spoons, two small silver glasses for vodka, and two champagne flutes. From a cooler Dirk had loaded before takeoff, she removed a container of beluga caviar from the Caspian Sea. She had a plastic container with freshly baked blini. On ice in the cooler was a bottle of Perrier-Jouët champagne and a small bottle of Stolichnaya vodka. In a nod to local customs she had observed, there were also a few half-sized bottles of Topo Chico sparkling mineral water from northern Mexico for palate-clearing purposes. “Wow! What a spread!” Dirk enthused before snapping the curtain shut and leaving Merlin once again alone and unsupervised at the controls.
Merlin followed the preprogrammed flight plan on the GPS map, heading east above Westheimer Road toward the Galleria. As he approached the sprawling monument to consumerism, he carefully removed the thumb drive containing the approved Fandango Utilities marketing messages and inserted his own. He had taken time to embellish his slogans with what he considered compelling complementary graphics. Preceding and following his messages, colorful spinning gyres that looked kind of like animated moving versions of the static symbols for hurricanes scrolled and tracked across the big screen in the night sky. Merlin considered a couple of his favorites as the huge words scrolled down the blimp’s illuminated skin:
Solstice approaches! Steel yourselves as the gyre tightens!
Urgent Notice to Houstonians!
Energy vortex reversal imminent!
The messages continued to scroll, and Merlin took shallow breaths, hoping no one from the Fandango Utilities marketing department would see them. The blimp traversed the airspace above Montrose Boulevard and approached Midtown.
Just like one of the 82 Metro buses turning left onto Louisiana Street toward downtown but riding smoothly aloft, with steady pressure on the left foot pedal Merlin initiated a similar turn in the direction of the great steel and glass temples to commerce in the city’s central business district. Hoping he might connect with some brave souls out strolling in the spirit-wilting weather, he banked the outside screen toward the ground as more messages cascaded down its surface.
Energy dissipation must cease!
Defeat the negative energy cyclone!
Prepare to vanquish the negative gyre!
The Astros were on the road, and except for some activity around the theater district, downtown looked quiet, although he did note a few floors of skyscrapers lighted for cleaning crews, and a few offices where, even in this low-energy time of year, some hungry young capitalists were burning the midnight oil in hopes of making names, if not fortunes, for themselves. The assigned advertising route was complete, and as the Airmadillo crossed Buffalo Bayou at Allen’s Landing, Merlin continued northward and fumbled for the tech gear in his side pack. The pack began to spill its contents toward the cockpit floor, but he caught the first device before it tumbled out and carefully placed it along with the others on the flat surface above the airship’s instrument panel. He’d brought everything he considered might be germane to the mission: night vision goggles with a camera attachment; a heat sensor that attached to his smart phone and could detect variations in heat and cold at great distances; and his energy-detection device embedded in a ball cap.
As he angled toward the address to which Tite had driven his Porsche, what looked like fog came into view. As the Airmadillo neared the house, he realized it was not fog, but smoke. Merlin slowed the vehicle and used the GPS in his smart phone to fly directly to the address. He dived as low as he thought he could without getting in trouble and turned off the airship’s headlights outside the passenger pod. On arriving at the address, he further slowed the blimp and held it in a tight circle as he donned the military-grade night vision goggles/camera apparatus.
Looking down at the small compound, he noticed immediately that the smoke was coming from something that looked industrial, like a pipe, and the metal building from which it protruded looked utilitarian, like some kind of small warehouse or storage room. When he had a good view of the smokestack, he took still images and video of it. He then noticed someone leading a group of people from one building in the compound to another. Someone walking behind the line of people had a rifle. He kept the camera rolling and captured video of the group.
He knew he needed to work fast not to arouse suspicion, so he doffed the night vision goggles and grabbed his smart phone. He attached the heat sensor to the bottom of the phone and pulled up its corresponding app. When he aimed the sensor in the direction of the compound he saw several heat signatures. Someone led another group to a waiting vehicle, and he could see the heat their bodies produced on his phone screen. But by far the most intense heat signature emanated from the chimney pipe and the end of the building directly beneath it. Merlin was astounded to see that the app indicated that the thermal detector had basically red-lined past the highest temperature it was capable of registering. He took a picture of the reading with his phone and saved it to his photo album.
The curtain separating him from the passenger section protruded briefly with the impression of an elbow or the heel of a foot, breaking Merlin out of his wonder at the intense heat reading. He pulled the blimp out of its holding pattern and turned the elevator wheel backward with his right hand to gain altitude as he pushed forward the throttle control with his left hand to increase the airship’s ground speed. This maneuver may have caused the next kick or elbow to the curtain as a disheveled Dirk quickly poked his head through the side of the curtain to ask, “Everything okay up here, ace?” Quickly recovering from the shock of the unexpected inquiry, Merlin replied, “Oh! Yes! I have us on a direct course for FUBAR. Is that okay?”
“Right-o,” replied Dirk as his uncharacteristically haywire mop of pilot hair disappeared behind the curtain.
Merlin straightened himself in the pilot’s seat with one great inhalation and exhalation and
leveled off the Airmadillo at its standard cruising altitude and speed. A few minutes after he turned the elevator wheel downward to begin the initial descent toward FUBAR, the curtain opened and a once again professional-looking Captain Dirk Kajerka sidled toward the front. Merlin hoisted himself from his beloved place at the helm of the Airmadillo and squeezed past Kajerka as they traded places. Before he flopped onto a seat at the fore of the passenger area, Merlin noticed Svetlana on the bench seat in the aft of the craft. She was sitting on it lengthwise with her back to a window and her ankles crossed in front of her. She gave the giant interim pilot a quick look and returned to scrutinizing her fingernails as she vaped an e-cigarette.
• Twenty-seven
Merlin arrived home very late that evening. He had been at FUBAR since early morning and was dog tired. He asked the Alles driver to go to a Whataburger drive-through on the way home for a triple-meat, triple cheeseburger with bacon, grilled onions, and jalapeños. He bought two orders of fries—one for himself and one for the driver—and snacked on a few fries on the way home. He decided to take his meal in the kitchen of the main residence where there was a large refrigerator with a full complement of condiments. Normally, Merlin got the mail and sorted it on the way through the house to his observatory, but this evening, with his appetite in command, he picked it up from the floor beneath the mail slot and placed it on a front hall desk on the way to his feasting post atop a high barstool at the kitchen counter.
He turned on the kitchen television. There were lions in Africa attacking and tearing apart an unfortunate impala. Merlin eyed his Whataburger with an equal degree of savage focus and determination. First, however, he went to the fridge to make a concoction. He mixed mayonnaise, yellow mustard, and a little Pickapeppa sauce in a bowl. He then opened the top of the burger and lathered the underside of the bun with a generous glob of the sauce. His first bite was pure bliss. He applied a little more of the sauce to each successive bite as he held the paper-cradled Whataburger at a high angle almost perpendicular to the countertop surface to keep his prized sauce from dripping. More waves of bliss ensued as he watched a lion tear a hunk of bloody flesh from the hindquarters of its kill.
He spooned some of his concoction into a ramekin, added a bit of ketchup, and stirred. This became the dipping station for french fries on their journey over the well-worn terrain of his taste buds. Judiciously, he began to intersperse handfuls of fries between every other burger bite, ensuring they remained warm while he ate them. There was nothing as unwise as getting too enthralled with the main event of the burger itself and disregarding the fries until the end of the meal when they have grown cool and their flavor value has declined precipitously. His feast complete and feeling full beyond satiety, Merlin wadded up the burger paper, Whataburger bag, and french fry container and threw them into the kitchen garbage can. He rinsed the bowls and spoons and wiped away any telltale residue from the counter.
He waddled back to the front hall and retrieved the mail from the little entryway table where he had left it. He sorted it by recipient—the important-looking pile added to a larger pile to be sent via air express next week to Mickey in Amsterdam and the more humble pile with a couple of catalogues interspersed for himself. The first thing he noticed was an envelope addressed to him on Bayou Boughs Country Club stationery. It didn’t have a cellophane window with the address showing through like a monthly bill. The stationery stock was heavier than that used for any communication he had ever seen from the club excepting the monthly newsletter, which wasn’t stationery, after all. He slit the top of the envelope open with a paring knife and pulled the single sixty-pound-stock folded page from it. He opened it and read the words beneath the BBCC emblem.
Mr. McNaughton:
Because of your Continued and Flagrant Violations of Bayou Boughs Country Club Rules & Regulations, the Board of Directors has been faced with no other choice than to suspend you from Membership in the Club for a period of not less than Six Months, beginning immediately. After this time has elapsed, the board may consider your reinstatement at its convenience.
Sincerely,
N. Teitel Dûche V
President and Chairman of the Board of Directors,
Bayou Boughs Country Club
The letter was signed with Tite Duche’s official signature, not the glib and unctuously chummy “Tite” that ended his monthly updates. The V signifying “the fifth” at the end of the signature seemed to be etched onto the page with malicious force. It was a dagger, and it stabbed Merlin right in the heart.
He sat staring at the letter and felt a sinking feeling unlike any he had ever experienced in all his days. Nausea ensued, and he felt his Whataburger on the verge of convulsing its way up his esophagus. It did an about-face, threatened the valves of Houston at the other end of his alimentary canal, and desisted. He placed the open letter on his kitchen counter and rested his forehead, now covered with a cold sweat, on top of it. In a couple of minutes, the nausea subsided enough for him to gather his mail and himself and exit the main house for his observatory.
Looking at his feet, Merlin trudged up the stairs to the observatory. The room was dark, but as he neared the top of the stairway, he could see that the Agglomerator was once again flashing bright orange. He looked toward it on entering the room, but before he stepped closer to see the latest message, he noticed the same orange light was glinting back at him from the floor. Shards of glass were reflecting the warning color onto the walls of the observatory, and Merlin gave his signature perplexed look—the golden retriever with head cocked sideways. He took a few more steps to reach the light switch. When he flipped it on and saw the room, he took a step backward and then another.
Glass chunks and shards of varying sizes were all over the place, but they were most concentrated in the space dedicated to his beloved glass armonica, which was now smashed to smithereens. The intruder did a very thorough job, not just obliterating all the instrument’s spinning cylinders but also dismembering the structure of the apparatus that held them. As for the armonica’s motor, it looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. The window behind it was shattered.
Still clutching his mail, Merlin took another step backward and wilted onto the floor. He sat with his back against one of his galley kitchen’s cabinets in one of the few glass shard–free spots of his cherished home. He couldn’t think. He could barely breathe. He just stared at the devastation. After several minutes had elapsed, the only thing he could think to do was to call Bayou Boughs Patrol, which he did with a kind of mindless, zombie-like deliberateness. When an officer answered, it took everything Merlin had to try to get some words out. Finally, in a stunned monotone, he managed to utter, “Hello? Yes. I would like to report an incident.” When he finished the call, his valves of Houston once again began to falter. He looked like a defeated sumo wrestler as he got to his feet and bolted for the bathroom.
• Twenty-eight
Late the following morning, Merlin awakened groggy and disoriented. The officers’ questions and inspection of the scene had taken quite some time. Bayou Boughs Patrol arrived first; they called the Houston Police Department to take fingerprints and lodge an official burglary and vandalism report. By the time it was all over, it was almost 3 a.m. Other than the destruction of the armonica and the broken window, everything else seemed to be in place. Merlin’s antique astrolabes and sextants still dangled from the ceiling undisturbed.
This was a case of quick-strike break-in and destruction of property. The neighborhood patrolmen and the officers from HPD admitted that this case was unlike anything they had seen or even heard about as far as burglaries in Bayou Boughs went. Usually in this neighborhood, the wife’s jewelry was gone and maybe some free-standing electronic devices. The husband’s hunting rifles and shotguns were also typical stolen items. Additionally, the officers had never seen a residence quite like Merlin’s observatory. They marveled as much at the strange living space as they did at the unusual crime after Merlin explained t
o them what a glass armonica was, that Benjamin Franklin had invented it, et cetera.
“Whoever did this knew what he was doing,” said one of the officers.
The cop with the fingerprinting kit said, “Yep, not a print in sight.”
At that point Merlin remembered his outdoor mounted camera and said, “Oh, officers, I think I may have the perpetrator on video!”
Merlin, the patrolmen, and the HPD officers watched the video and saw a man completely covered from head to toe in black, including black gloves. He had a small backpack he opened to produce a heavy-headed hammer to smash the casement window glass and enter the observatory.
“Doesn’t do much for us,” the officer with the fingerprinting kit said.
“Nope,” the other officer agreed. “Wearing a ninja suit during a Houston summer! This guy was hard-core. Operated like a pro.”
The officers had Merlin sign the incident report, and all offered their condolences to him on the loss of his beloved armonica.
With the summer sun glinting through the observatory’s blinds as he lay on the bed, Merlin reflected on his exchanges with the officers. The room took on a strange, soulless orderliness as the police and patrolmen had helped him clean up the broken stuff. They took the bigger chunks as evidence. They had even helped him tape a plastic bag to the casement window frame, and now the observatory was back to its icy-cool, air-conditioned state—cool enough to chill a big man, a very hairy big man.
He looked at the place where the glass armonica had been intact just a few hours earlier. How could this be? He thought that if he had only been at home, it would not have happened, but the final Airmadillo night flight of the summer was a long one, especially with the added time for surveillance above the strange compound that Tite Dûche’s Porsche frequented. On a morning he would have normally worked up an appetite shuffling to the club for breakfast, thanks to President Dûche, he couldn’t. And he couldn’t lament that situation with a baleful dirge on his armonica, either. He was truly hamstrung, manacled by the callous dictates of bad fortune.
Merlin of the Magnolias Page 16