by Gary K. Wolf
Lupe drew a healthy round of applause, not surprising considering every patron had six arms to work with. She sat at the piano, took a few sallies up and down the keyboard, and started to sing.
I’ve gotten more melodious music out of a comb and tissue paper. I took a hefty swallow of bourbon, but, short of pouring it in my ears, there was no way for it to improve the quality of her voice. Thank goodness she suppressed her balloons. If they’d looked like she sounded, they would have sawed holes in the ceiling. I hailed the waitress and took another dive into Dingles’s well.
None too soon for my tortured eardrums, Lupe finished her set. Insects must be tuned to a different wavelength, because they gave Lupe a hearty ovation. She acknowledged the clapping and ducked out through a curtain in the rear.
I drained my hooch and went after her.
“What’s going on?” said Little Jo, hanging on to my lapel for dear life. “You act like you know that woman. Who is she?”
I opened the glass door you’re supposed to pop only when a fire erupts. Well, my world was blazing. “Sorry, runt. I might have to get harsh with the thrush, and I don’t want interference.” Or witnesses, either. “Call it one I owe you.” I locked her inside with Dingles’s leaky hose.
Lupe’s dressing room doubled as the ladies’ john. I figured any lady patronizing Dingles had run out of modesty long ago, so I opened the door and walked in.
I found Lupe sitting at a rickety makeup table that took its illumination from a ten-watt glowworm hung from the ceiling by a cord looped around its middle. She had her face covered with more cream than most hash houses serve on a piece of pecan pie. She had swapped her gown for a green chenille bathrobe that hung on her like seaweed on a beached dolphin.
“Wrong door, asno,” she said. “El potty es uno down the hall.”
“Hi, Lupe. Remember me?”
She gave me a onceover that would have done credit to the beefcake judge at a 4H fair. “Madre mia, let me give the guess. You got an inquisitive manner about you. I know. Newspaper reporter. Critic of music for el Telltale, si? Well amante, I hope you got muy sharp pencil ‘cause I got plenty to tell. First, I never take voice lesson in my life.”
“No kidding.”
“Es verdad! I know. Hard to believe.” She put her hands on her ample bosom. “Especially for one with my vibrato. You want to know, I bet, why is classy singer like me stay in dive like Dingles. My aficionados, my fans, I am loyal to my fans. Did you not hear the buzz-buzz-buzz from the crowd? To me that mean more than a concert at Carnegie Corredor. As long as flyboys keep to cheer me on, I will sing out my lungs for them. Is that the, how do you say it, punto de vista you seeking?”
“Not quite.” I leaned against the edge of the sink. “I’m Eddie Valiant. Remember me? Freddy Valiant’s brother?”
From out of a ring on the wall, she took a towel that had last wiped dipsticks in a gas station and used it to scoop away her cleansing cream. “You have confused me with another, hombre.” She peeled off a pair of eyelashes the size of small butterflies. When I took a closer look, I saw they were small butterflies.
I pointed to her musical instruments, looped over the coin slot on the toilet-stall door. “The old maracas tell me otherwise.”
“Sí, sí, Eddie.” She redid her makeup for the second show, applying her foundation with a mortar and trowel. “You can no blame a senorita for telling lie. Singing for buggy boys is big, how do you say it, down come from what I do in Cuba. You saw me at Baba de Rum, no? I do the chickee-boom pretty good. And not to forget the movies. I was what they call a rising starlet.”
“Matter of fact, I just saw one of your flicks at Grauman’s. A thriller called Shadow of Evil.”
She blew into her hand and caught her breath in her palm. It turned a gaudy shade of translucent red. She broke it in half, stuck a piece on each cheek, and smoothed the edges flat with her finger. “One of my best.”
“Starred Kirk Enigman. Also featured a peg-legged Toon named Pepper Potts. Remember him?”
She squinted into her mirror, trying to bring her face, or maybe the past, into clearer focus. “Muy gigantico. Ugly. And mean. “
“That’s him.”
“I don’t know the peg-legged one so good. He is palling out more with Kirk.”
“And they both hung around with your boyfriend LeTuit, right?”
“Tom Tom, he is very struck with the stars. When they come to Cuba, he is eager to meet them.”
“He ever meet Roger Rabbit?”
“I think he do. The rabbit come to Cuba to gamble. He big American film star. Tom Tom show him the pretty good time. Tom Tom and Pete and Kirk and the rabbit, they knock around together. “
“You seen Potts or Enigman lately?”
She shook her head. “We no travel in same circles any more.”
“Let me bring you up to date. Early yesterday somebody turned Enigman into a slick spot on the floor of his screening room. Just before he died, he was watching a home movie of you. And LeTuit. And my brother Freddy. Remember Freddy? The sap you turned from a decent, hardworking stiff into a zombie Toon?”
She didn’t flinch. “I have nada to do with that.”
“Sure. Just like you got no idea what’s in a certain little black box that half the civilized world’s after.”
Her composure slipped and took half her makeup with it, leaving her with a quadruple chin. She needed a backhoe and a year’s supply of Kleenex to clear away the landslide. “If you know what is good for you,” she said, switching to balloons so she could keep her mouth still while she repainted her face, “you will forget about Tom Tom, you will forget about Señor Enigman, and you will especialamente forget about that caja, that box. Comprende? You fool here with sinister powers you no understand.”
“You mean hocus pocus dominocus? Sorry, sister, I only shiver once a year, and that came last Halloween.”
“You do not want to know about this. It is too horroroso.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve seen a rabbit with his clothes off. What could be worse?”
“You have no idea, Mr. Valiant. I will tell you. That box it contain only copy of formula for Tonico de Tura, what you would call Toon Tonic.”
“People are committing murder over a cola?”
“No, no, no, fizzy cola. Diabolico concoctione. Dr. Jackal”—she crossed herself with her makeup brush—“he discover Toon Tonic. Tom Tom promise to bottle, sell, and split proceeds, but instead he murder Jackal to keep all for himself.”
“What’s this stuff do?”
“You saw. Toon Tonic what Tom Tom slip to your brother.”
“That’s what turned him into a zombie!”
“No. Zombie turn him into a zombie.”
“Don’t doubletalk me.”
“Zombie, zombie. You know.” She formed a hitchhiker’s fist and poured her thumb toward her throat. “The bebida. The bar drink. It often have that effect. Especially on turistas. The Toon Tonic, it work different.”
“Give me a hint.”
“It turn a human into a Toon.”
It sounded impossible but so did the concept of Pop Tarts the first time I heard it. “This Toon Tonic. Does it wear off?”
“Nunca.” Never.
“You’re telling me a human who drinks this stuff is doomed to spend the rest of his life as one of you?”
“Unless he drink it again. It also turn the vicio into the versio. The Toon into the human.”
I’ve seen men hanged, shot, poisoned, and gutted. I’ve seen Bela Lugosi in Dracula and Boris Karloff in Frankenstein. None of it held a candle to the horror of Toons becoming humans. “Where’s your boyfriend planning to make this stuff?”
“Ex-boyfriend. We through for good.”
“Ex-boyfriend then.”
“Tom Tom he rent an alamacen, a warehouse in Toontown.” S
he wrote down the address and handed it to me.
I grabbed her mitt and squeezed it hard. My torture technique didn’t work. Her hand had the substance of foolscap. I might as well massage a wad of tissue paper. I switched persuasions, flipping out the file built into my nail clippers. In this light, she’d never know the difference between that and a shiv. I held it against her throat. “Where’s my brother?”
When she shrugged, her bathrobe fell open, uncovering one of her shoulders and half her chest. She’d slipped a lot since the old days. “I no see him since Cuba. If I guess, I say he with Dr. Jackal. They swim together in ocean with the mortos and fish.” She buffed her thumbnail on my intimidator and pushed it to one side.
She finished off her makeup with a spray coating of varnish. “You got nothing else you want to know, you ask it quick, cause my publico awaits.”
“Who’s the trixie left last night with Baby Herman? I hear you and her are bosom buddies.”
Again she humped her shoulders, exposing another square yard of sagging flesh. “I know not her name. She come to hear me often. She relish my vocal talents. She big Lupe fan of which I tell you I got muy mucho.”
“There’s a few of your admirers at my place, hanging off my flypaper. I’ll drop them in an envelope and mail them over.” Just as I reached for the knob, the door opened. Two ladybugs staggered in. They didn’t seem surprised to find me there.
I tipped my hat, and bid one and all a good day.
19
“You needn’t have locked me away,” groused Little Jo. “I wouldn’t have interfered.” She was back riding tourist class in my breast pocket.
“Squirt, I don’t trust anybody except myself. ‘Cause I’m the only Gus who’s never sold me out.”
“In other words, strike three on me. Besides being small and a woman, I’m also not and never will be Eddie Valiant.” She smoked a dandelion fuzzy extracted from a pack that would fit in my nose with a carton to spare.
“This case wobbles in oddball directions, short stuff, Roger’s only a minor part of it. There’s aspects you can’t comprehend.” I ferried her up the stairs to my office.
“Try me,” she said. She dropped her weed on the floor. I snuffed it with my toe to prevent it setting a dust kitten on fire. “I might surprise you.”
I opened my door.
Clark Gable had settled into the overstuffed armchair I vacuum for loose change after every client. A trick of the trade you learn at Gumshoe U. “Where have you been?” Gable bounded to his feet. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”
I slipped out of my suit coat and dropped it on my rack. I angled pipsqueak toward the wall. “What brings you to my side of the tracks?” I asked Gable.
“I intended to hire you to find Roger Rabbit,” said Gable. Little Jo leaned out of my coat and tried to straighten my college diploma. At ten bucks a copy from Fast Frankie’s Print Shop, it was too crooked. She turned her attention to forming my pocket hankie into a parachute. “I’m determined to see that he pays the maximum price for killing my buddy the Babe.”
“You’re barking up the wrong rabbit. Roger didn’t rub out Herman.”
“Clark. Catch.” Little Jo hit the silk.
Gable hadn’t lost his Air Corps fighter pilot’s reflexes. He snagged her in midair. “Jo. What are you doing here?”
“Research for a new story.” She gave me a scornful glance. “Called The Man Who Wouldn’t Bend.”
“Catchy title. There a part in the movie for me?”
“The lead, if you can portray a diehard chauvinist.”
“I’ll pass. It’s too much of a stretch.” Gable nestled her into the crook of his arm, pushing his coat sleeve to the elbow to pillow her head. He loaded the cap from his hip flask and handed it to her on a silver dollar. For a napkin, he offered his shirt cuff. While she drank, he fanned her with the end of his paisley ascot. Add a bath in goat’s milk, and she’d be the Queen of Sheba.
“How do you know the rabbit’s innocent?” Gable asked me. Always skeptical, movie stars. Never take your word for anything. An occupational hazard. Results from overexposure to the phrase “Trust me.”
“I’m his alibi. He was with me when it happened.” Except for the eight hours I racked out when he could have flown to Rio and back without me knowing. “Be realistic, Clark. Roger Rabbit’s goofy as a sotted seersucker saphead, but he’s no murderer.”
Gable showed me an upraised chin and a perfect left profile. The bugger didn’t have a bad side, at least not one visible from the exterior. “If not him, who?”
I lit a gaffer. “For starters, maybe you.”
“Me?” He smacked his hand to his chest, upending Little Jo from his forearm. She clung to his leather elbow patch for dear life. “Why would I kill my best buddy?” His pearly whites sparkled with the luster of a brand-new porcelain sink.
“I got a flash for you, chump. He was beating your time with your girl.”
Gable tumbled backwards into my armchair. He landed heavy, with a jingle of falling coin. Hallelujah. There’s gold in them there cushions tonight. “The Babe? And Carole?” Little Jo lost her tenuous grip on his arm and tumbled into freefall. “That’s ridiculous,” Gable proclaimed. Little Jo caught Gable’s pants cuff with the agility of a trapeze artist, slid down his argyles to rest on the toe of his shiny cordovans. It’s true what nuns say. Black patent leather does reflect up, though in Little Jo’s case you’d need a microscope to see what. “The Babe wouldn’t do that to me.”
“He would, he could, and he did.” I tiptoed Gable through the wilted tulips, past the huggy-bear photo of Herman and Lombard hanging on Roger’s wall, Lombard’s love letter in Herman’s baby buggy, and the picture of Lombard in Herman’s trick frame.
“The insufferable jerk!” Gable said when I’d finished. He smacked his palm repeatedly against his chair. His crossed leg bobbed in tight circles. Little Jo rode his size nine like a bucking bronco. “If he wasn’t dead, I’d kill him.”
“Bulldog Bascomb might make the case that you already did.” The high-low, high-low motion of Gable’s foot turned Little Jo slightly puce. Eddie Valiant, knight in tarnished armor, to the rescue. I sucked my Lucky deep and blew a smoke ring at her. She grabbed a hold, swung inside the billowy circle, and rode the air currents up to desktop level. She dismounted with a half gainer worthy of Johnny Weissmuller. She took a seat on my ink bottle. A whiffet of smoke encircled her bright red hair like the halo on a chain puffer’s dashboard Madonna. “Clark,” I told him, “you’re in chowder up to your eyeballs.”
He dropped his head to a level that showed me the top of his scalp. “It does appear that way.” The man had every hair he was born with, and half of mine, too. “Let me ask you a hypothetical question.” He reached to his inside coat pocket. “Is this likely to clean my name?” He dropped a huge wad of green on my blotter. It landed beside my photo of plain Jane and her two kids. A readymade family I bought framed in a Santa Monica hock shop. It gives clients confidence. The stable family man.
“Depends how dirty it turns out to be.”
“How much Borax can I buy for that?”
I tapped his wad with my finger. It weighed the same as a small pineapple. “Enough to rinse your underwear.”
“I don’t wear it.”
“Then for sure it’s plenty.” I scooted his mound of moola toward my top desk drawer.
“Don’t open that,” shouted Gable.
I raised an eyebrow. So did he. On him it looked better, but he is a professional. “Roger Rabbit’s inside.”
I inched the drawer out anyway. I never believe Wet Paint signs or Dangerous Curve warnings, either. I ought to learn. True to Gable’s word, the drawer contained a compressed brick of white fur and red corduroy. Roger the Rectangular Rabbit.
Little Jo walked to the edge of my desk top and took a peek. “How did Roger get in t
here?” she asked me.
I snared her dime-sized balloon and flipped it at Gable. “You tell her, Clark.”
He pulled out, and on, his hip flask. “As I mentioned,” said Gable, “I came here to hire you to find Roger Rabbit.” He wiped his mouth like an everyday working stiff, with the back of his hand. “I found him in your office when I arrived. We tussled a bit, I prevailed. I bound him with your phone cord and imprisoned him in that drawer. With the phone disabled, I had no way to call the police. I didn’t want to leave the rabbit unguarded. They’re slippery, these Toons. I assumed that once you returned, one of us could watch him while the other went for the law.” He took another tug of liquid consolation. “If you believe he’s not guilty, it appears I made a mistake. I hope the rabbit’s not upset.”
“Naw, rabbit’s love tight, dark spaces. That’s why they live in loamy burrows with nobody to talk to but earthworms.” I leaned close to the drawer and spoke into what appeared to be one of the rabbit’s ears. “You were supposed to stay at pipsqueak’s.”
A balloon leaked out of him the way residual foam escapes from a squashed beer can. “I couldn’t abide twiddling my toes while you did the work. I’m a rabbit of action, Eddie. When there’s a tough, nasty, dangerous job to be done, I’m the rabbit to do it. Put ‘em up, gunsel. I got you covered. Bang. Bang. I nailed him, Elliot. Rata-tata-tat. Pass me more bullets, J. Edgar.”
“How hard did you sock him,” I asked Gable, “before you gave him the squish?”
Gable flicked his forefinger off his thumb like a kid shooting marbles. “A love tap.”
“Love tap?” said Roger. “You fibbery fighting fiend. You nearly unscrewed my head.”
“You’re a felon, wanted by the police for murder.” Gable joined me and the tadpole around the outer edge of the drawer. “What was I supposed to do?”
“For starters, stay away from my wife. “ Roger’s balloon sprayed a stream of hot venom across the front of Gable’s pressed linen pants.
Gable slammed his flask on my desk, yanked the drawer out of its slot, and upended it. Roger fell squarely to the floor. “Maybe if you weren’t always off on location shooting those stupid, worthless cartoons, maybe if you spent more time at home with her, you wouldn’t have to worry.”
