The Almost Complete Short Fiction

by Don Wilcox

  Maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised at that. A mouse will look you in the eye, and this creature was almost as big as a mouse.

  When a mouse looks at you, you know what he’s thinking; namely, Omigosh, how do I get out of here?

  A rattlesnake will look you in the eye, too, and you know what he’s thinking; namely, Git the hell out of my path, Stranger, or I’ll strike.

  But the little creature wasn’t anything like a mouse, or a rattlesnake, or yet a tadpole. I didn’t know whether it was friend or foe, good or evil, poison or good eating when fried in butter.

  The thing was eyeing me one moment. The next thing I knew it jumped straight up like a flea. This girl wanted to close the car door, and the chauffeur, looking back, wondered why she didn’t.

  The reason was, evidently, that she was afraid of striking this funny little creature.

  Now the chauffeur saw, and the creature looked up at him.

  “What is it?” the chauffeur asked. “A mechanical doll?”

  “It’s alive,” said the girl.

  “It looks almost human,” said the chauffeur, and there was something in what he said. It was to all appearances an animated doll. It had a mop of stringy yellow rag-doll hair, a pink face with no expression whatever, and bright black eyes. It wore green tights over its tiny womanly body, and had a long curved tail that was a sure-nuff devil’s tail—pointed arrow and all.

  “Look out!” I yelled. The thing was jumping toward the car door again.

  The girl swung the end of the unwrapped turban toward it. The little creature made another jump, caught on with tiny outstretched arms, and disappeared into the turban.

  CHAPTER IV

  High Above Moon Street

  The girl held the turban up to the light. Nothing in those long strips but fanciful designs.

  “Well, for ridin’ on the rim!” the chauffeur gulped. “Did you see that, Miss Morris? Your silly little doll went out like a spark.”

  “Charles!” the girl spoke sharply. “Yes, Miss Morris?”

  “You know what Mr. Taggart has told us.”

  “About not talking? I forgot, Miss Morris. But this doll—did you see it jump into that cloth? Where is it now?”

  “There isn’t any doll,” the girl said, casting a suspicious glance at me. “It was just your imagination—and yours, too, Mister Cowboy.”

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You folks both work for Taggart, don’t you? Why can’t you talk about things?”

  “Mr. Taggart don’t want his business discussed,” said Charles. “Shall I wait for you, Miss Morris?”

  “Don’t bother. Thanks,” said the girl. “If Mr. Taggart asks about me, tell him I’ve gone home. I’m taking the turban with me. And one thing more, Charles.”

  “Yes, Miss Morris?”

  “Keep this cowboy with you till I catch my bus. He might have some notion of following me.”

  “I wouldn’t blame him, Miss Morris—er—just as you say. Sit yourself down in that back seat, Mister Cowboy.”

  I did, just to be accommodating. “Take me on up to the corner, Charles, so I can see where the concrete fell through,” I said, as if I owned the limousine.

  “Very good, sir,” said the chauffeur out of habit. But he caught himself. “I don’t know whether I should—”

  He didn’t need to finish. I knew what I was doing. In spite of his being a halfway chummy old codger, he wasn’t the one I was interested in. I was already out of the car with a bound and right on the heels of the girl.

  “Hi, Miss Morris! It’s me again,” I said. “Don’t be walking off before we’ve had time to get acquainted.”

  “Am I annoying you?” she said, and went right on walking.

  “I’m just a harmless cowboy,” I said. “Any girl bandit could teach me things about walking into a jail and holding up a prisoner with a gun—”

  “How’d you know?” She stopped suddenly and faced me. She was scared, I guess, yet something made her smile just a little. “I’m no bandit—but how’d you know—”

  “I was there. I heard you pull that hold-up act and rob my pal of his turban. Bad business, Miss Morris. Somehow it don’t mix with runnin’ the elevator at the Hall of Arts.”

  She was off on her heel, trying to walk away from me again. The faster she walked the faster I talked.

  “Come on, Miss Morris, let’s not go chasing around like a runaway horse. Let’s dodge into this coffee shop and talk things over.”

  “Just what do you want?” She stopped and faced me defiantly.

  “I want that turban. I want to know all about that little jumping-jack that melted into it. And I want that gun. You’re not safe with it.”

  “Your friend in jail took the gun away from me.” She was laughing now. “You cowboys are so chivalrous, trying to keep me out of danger. But this turban—if I lost that, too, Mr. Taggart would be wild. I shouldn’t tell you this, but he’s terribly angry because something went wrong at the concert tonight—”

  “There were creatures in that turban?”

  “I’m not supposed to say anything. He’d probably murder me if he knew—but that’s the reason I’ve got to keep this scarf goods and work with it to get a more harmonious design. Within a few days Taggart’s new turbans will be on the market and you can buy all you want.” Miss Morris pressed a finger to her lips. “Please—you mustn’t know anything. What you thought you saw—it was just your imagination. Now, please forget—”

  She broke off short. Two of those curious little turban tadpoles crawled up out of her coat collar. One of them began yanking at her hair, the other beat a tattoo on her throat.

  It must have been a signal. Instantly she turned to look down the street. She caught me by the arm.

  “Quick! Into the doorway. I don’t want to be seen. It’s Heptad.”

  We dodged into the entrance-way of an Oriental jewelry shop, trying to hide ourselves from any passersby.

  Those little pixies, by heck, had crawled out of the turban to warn her of some sort of danger. Now they disappeared again.

  “Maybe Heptad didn’t see us,” she whispered. “Don’t look back.”

  We stood there watching the lights and reflections in the dark window. Pedestrians and cars were flowing back from the corner of Moon and Park. Two or three buses rolled by. A cop glanced at us and passed on. I kept watching for the blue limousine. If the corner ahead was still blocked, Taggart and his chauffeur Charles would have to do a U-turn back this way. Somehow I would feel much safer as soon as I knew the blue limousine was home in its garage for the night.

  “Hussh! That’s him—Pug Heptad,” the girl whispered, as white and scared as a rabbit. “Put your arm around me and don’t let him see me.”

  I obeyed her, but I felt awkward as the deuce. If this beetle-browed, bullet-headed little man coming past was such a bad actor, why shouldn’t I turn around and take a sock at him? That’s what my pal Joe would have done, and the fellows back at the ranch know I’m almost as quick on the fist action as Joe.

  Well, this pug-ugly Heptad ambled past, and Miss Morris breathed like she’d just been missed by a bomb. But just as she started to look up over my shoulder, one of those turban creatures jumped up and smacked her on the cheek and two more chased themselves around her coat collar.

  “Hello, there, Heptad!”

  I knew without looking that that bellow came from Taggart. Heptad came trudging back.

  “What’s the dope, Big Shot?”

  “See here, Heptad,” Taggart was as mad as a rattlesnake. “What happened up there on the corner? You caught three persons in that crash. You were supposed to clear the way—”

  “You didn’t give me time, boss. You flashed the signal for right now. What’s three people more or less? You put it over with the commissioner, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but there’s no sense in bungling-”

  Their low voices were right at the corner of our entrance-way. We were no more hidden than t
he cop on the corner. As the men edged another foot closer their voices choked off, and we could see through the glass that they were staring into the darkness trying to make us out.

  “What’s up?” I whispered to Miss Morris. “Shall I start throwing punches?”

  “If you want to see me killed,” she whispered back. “Hold me up, Cowboy. I’m about to faint.” She took a couple deep breaths. “I’m all right. Oh-oh—just as I thought.”

  A motion from Heptad brought three other tough-looking bruisers to the vicinity ef our doorway. They pretended to be gazing at the window displays, and thus attracted no attention from the passing pedestrians, most of whom were talking excitedly about the sidewalk cave-in.

  Now Taggart sauntered toward us and we turned to face him. Out where I come from a fellow with his hunched- down head and savage eyes and overthick shoulders would be in danger of getting mistaken for an animal, even in a dress suit. His lips curled in a mean smile.

  “Well, Betty Morris, it’s a small world. I thought you’d gone home.”

  “I met a friend,” said Miss Morris. “He’s taking me over to the bus.”

  “I see you’ve picked the very man we wanted. One in the clink and the, other comes right to us. What a convenience.”

  “What are you talking about?” I snapped.

  This tough-looking Pug Heptad and his three henchmen all gaVe me a quick look to see if I was going to pull anything. I mustn’t have looked very fierce or else they felt mighty darned sure of thetnselves.

  “What I’m talking about is turbans,” said Taggart, as smooth as oil. “Something tells me you and your cowboy pal know all about my business. So—”

  Taggart hesitated while a policeman walked past following a pair of drunks.

  “So I may have to cut you in—both of you—if you know how to be sociable.”

  “I’m one of the sociablest singers that ever strayed off the range,” I said.

  “Come get into my car,” said Taggart. “You, too, Betty. I’ll take you to your bus.”

  I wanted to ask if he had taken the commissioner to his bus, but it’s one thing to be sociable and quite another to be impertinent. Those four thugs following us made a fellow think twice before saying anything.

  We went straight to the blue limousine. Charles the chauffeur dropped his jaw in surprise to see me again, but he didn’t say anything. Taggart did all the talking.

  This bullet-headed Heptad got in the front seat. His three men followed us in another car.

  Taggart began nagging at me with a lot of unwholesome sarcasm. He didn’t think I was a cowboy and he was darned sure I wasn’t a singer, and he doubted if my name was Steve Smith.

  I let him rant, because all the time he was exercising his jaw something else a heap more interesting was going on. Betty, sitting on the other side of me, had begun with powdering her nose and retouching her lips. Now she had a tiny pair of scissors at work inside the flap of her coat. While Taggart growled and guffawed and waved his hands around in truculent gestures, Betty Morris carefully cut an end of the turban off and slipped it into my hip pocket. By the time we reached the bus line it was all done on the sly and the scissors were out of sight.

  “Here’s your stop, Miss Morris,” said the chauffeur.

  “Have you still got the turban?” Taggart asked.

  Betty displayed a corner of it. “I’ll work it over and you can try it again tomorrow,” she said.

  Taggart and Heptad exchanged scowls and Charles the chauffeur blinked his eyes like an owl.

  Taggart grumbled. “Tomorrow night, then. And watch your talk.”

  So we left Betty Morris standing on the corner and the rest of us went for a ride. It didn’t seem to make any difference to these birds that I wanted to catch a bus, too. They had other plans for me.

  “You’ve never been to the top of the Taggart Building, have you, cowboy?” asked Taggart. “It’s still an hour till daybreak. Just the proper time to go up.”

  “It’s a good place to see the sun rise,” Heptad joined in. “Only maybe the sun won’t come up this morning.”

  Charles looked around and blinked his big eyes innocently. “Sure, it’ll come up, Mr. Heptad. Say, I never did see the sun rise from the top of a tall building. Couldn’t I go along?”

  Heptad and Taggart both gave a snorting laugh. “Keep your eyes on your driving, fool.” Taggart bent forward and swung a solid slap at the chauffeur’s face. That was when I decided to say goodnight to this party. I flung the door open and jumped for the pavement, and landed running.

  Doggone it, I’d slipped up. I’d forgot to figure on that other car. In fact, I hadn’t had time to figure anything. Brakes squealed, and right now the three men were out of the car and after me.

  I whirled, leaped for the curb, saw Heptad coming from the other way, dodged back and stumbled over a fireplug. I went down yelling.

  It was a wonder they didn’t shoot me for that. As I discovered a minute or two later, Taggart and his men were the masters of the law in this block. The policeman who came running up stopped and stroked his chin cautiously as soon as he saw what was what. Taggart’s men pounced on me right under the eyes of the law.

  I fetched a kick at one of them and he took a flipflop over the same fireplug and got up looking for his teeth. I knocked the ankles out from under number two and he smacked an ear to the ground.

  But I was outnumbered by three men, a cop, and a couple of guns—and out where I come from I’d learned a healthy respect for guns.

  When Pug Heptad said, “Git up on your two feet; you ain’t hurt,” I got right up and wasn’t hurt.

  When the officer said, “Nothing wrong here, I hope,” I was ready to admit there was nothing wrong.

  But it took the master mind, Taggart, to make everything perfectly all right. He strode back to us from his limousine, gave the officer a casual greeting, and turned to Heptad.

  “There, Doctor, is a demonstration of how this patient behaves. I thought we could get him down to the clinic without a strait-jacket, but I was wrong. Excellent work, men. Thank you for your help, officer. We’ll walk him right over to the clinic.”

  “Clinic, hell!” I blurted. “There’s nothing wrong with me!”

  Taggart shook his head sadly. “More delusions. A very difficult case, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m not a case, I’m a cowboy,” I yelled. “Hey, you cop, get me outa this.”

  “You’re right,” said the cop to Taggart, “he’s violent. He’s got a bad look in his eye.”

  “Delusions. He thinks he’s a cowboy. He thinks he can sing. We’ll get him right in for a diagnosis. A little psychiatric jiu jitsu is what he needs first.”

  The cop grinned, perfectly happy to think I was as loony as a tumbleweed.

  And so they steered me along like a reluctant calf on the road to veal chops. They took me into an entrance next door to the Taggart Building.

  The fleeting impression as I passed down this corridor was that I’d been shoved into a Tokyo skyscraper. These decorations were a throwback from the pre-war Japanese imperialism, or I missed my guess. The nightwatchman knew Taggart and made a deep bow. Out where I come from we’d kick a man out of the house if he carried on that sort of grovelling.

  Up on the fourth floor we went into the Clinic of the Far East.

  I was trying to take in everything that met my eyes, but it’s hard to recall what all I saw. I didn’t see a baseball bat or a club or anything else within handy reach that my eyes were looking for.

  We went on into a dark store-room full of musty books, charts, and what looked to be war maps gathering dust on the walls. Odd stuff to be collected right here in the city’s crowded business district. Where were they taking me now?

  My sense of distance told me that we’d reached the east Wall of this building. Well, there was still another door. And when we passed through to the next room, I was sure, from the thickness of the wall, that I was crossing into the Taggart Building on the corner.


  A couple minutes later I saw I was right. We entered a dusty freight elevator and emerged on the twenty-second floor. Taggart left us there.

  “Take him up on the roof and let him see the sun rise,” were Taggart’s parting words.

  The boys were right—the roof of this building gave a fine view of the sky. There was no sign of dawn yet. There were a few friendly stars off in the east above the street-lighted park. The neon-lighted city was way down below us, and back of us; and on to the west were the really big skyscrapers high above us. It was a pretty inspiring view for a cowboy from the flat prairie country, and if I’d been in the right mood I could have written a song then and there.

  But this hard-boiled Heptad and his three thugs were no respecters of a fellow’s poetic moods.

  “Stop talkin’ about songs,” Heptad growled. “We brought you up here to teach you a lesson; see?”

  “I don’t need any lessons,” I said. “Never took a lesson in my life.”

  “You’re gonna take one now.”

  “What are you aimin’ to do to me?”

  “Get rid of yuh.”

  “You’ll get in trouble if you do that. It wouldn’t be wise.” I was talking as fast as I could but I wished I could have Joe here to help me. “So I’m warnin’ you—”

  “Dry up. Who do you think you are? Don’t answer that. We’ll do the talkin’. Your turn’ll come later. When we get that buddy of yours up here, you’ll both talk. Then we’ll decide what to do with yuh.”

  They tied me to one of the eighteen or twenty pillars that supported the pagoda topknot of this building. A couple stringers of red neons glowed down on us, and I could see that Heptad’s beetle eyes had taken on a pretty nasty look. When he finished the last knot and gave me three whopping whacks across the cheeks for good measure, I decided not to say anything more about anything.

  So they left me, tied there on top of the world, waiting for the sunrise.

  CHAPTER V

  Man Overboard!

  When a fellow’s all alone, that’s a good time to think things over.

  Why had I walked into this jam anyway?