The Clockwork Teddy

by John J. Lamb

  I’d have been perfectly content to sit hypnotized by the sight of my wife bending over in her snug denim shorts for another half hour, but I finally remembered that I had to do some shopping. Ash’s birthday was less than three weeks away, and while I’d already bought her a gold and blue topaz bracelet, I’d deliberately held off on getting anything else, since I knew that some of our favorite bear artists would be at this show.

  Pushing myself to my feet, I said, “I think I’ll hit the bathroom before the show starts.”

  “Uh-huh.” Ash was lost in thought and I wasn’t quite certain she’d actually heard me.

  She was holding one of my newest bears, utterly focused on what, to her, was the crucial decision of where it belonged on our table. Me? I’d have hidden Steve Mc-Bear-ett behind Ash’s creations. Mc-Bear-ett was my mohair tribute to actor Jack Lord and the old television show Hawaii Five- 0, but most collectors and potential customers just wouldn’t be too excited over a black teddy bear dressed in a charcoal gray business suit, wearing half a shoulder holster. (The half shoulder holster wasn’t a design error on my part—it was a commitment to authenticity. Check out an old episode of the program and you may notice that Steve McGarrett’s shoulder rig lacks support straps. In real life, such a holster would fall off, yet on TV it remains miraculously attached to his shirt.) Another touch of realism that I was proud of was the fur on top of Mc-Bear-ett’s head. I’d stiffened it with repeated coats of lacquer to recreate Lord’s famously glossy and petrified hair.

  “Be back in a minute, love.” I kissed Ash on the temple.

  “The map says that Penny is over on aisle three. Tell her I said hi and that I’ll stop by a little later.” Ash still sounded distracted, but it was plain she knew the real reason I was leaving was to visit bear artist Penny French’s booth.

  “Aisle three, huh?” I asked, secretly glad for the information. “What makes you think I’m going there?”

  “Because you’re a sweet man . . .” Ash paused to set Mc-Bear-ett down on an empty spot on the table as gently as she would a soufflé fresh from the oven. When she turned to look at me, her Delft China-blue eyes were merry. “And you’re a terrible liar when it comes to fibbing to me. Oh, and also because you always get me the best birthday presents.”

  “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not going to Penny’s booth, because I’ve already got your present.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, and I’m certain you’re going to love the latest season of South Park on DVD.”

  “Brad honey, you’ve done more insanely dangerous things than I want to remember, but even you wouldn’t take that sort of risk.”

  “I know, so at least allow me to pretend that you don’t know where I’m going. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  Cane in hand, I slowly limped up the sidewalk toward the city hall, where all seven of the exhibitor’s aisles intersected like the spokes of an old wagon wheel. It was still about ten minutes from the formal opening of the show, yet the collectors were already beginning to hover around their favorite artists’ tables, hoping to discover that one special bear before someone else did. Not that there weren’t hundreds of amazing stuffed animals made by popular artists, which guaranteed that no one would go home unhappy. On our aisle alone, there was a stellar assemblage of bear makers, including the award-winning Donna Griffin, Karen DiNicola from Australia, and Rosalie Frischmann, who’d made the sweet teddy bear wearing an old-fashioned sailor suit that sat on one of our shelves back home.

  Working my way through the growing crowd, I spotted a middle-aged couple closely inspecting one of Mac Pohlen’s mohair creations. These weren’t your garden-variety bear collectors, however. Susan and Terry Quinlan owned and operated the finest teddy bear museum in the United States and they were obviously looking to add to their fabled collection. Located in Santa Barbara, the museum had opened after we’d moved to Virginia, but we’d heard about what an amazing place it was and regretted that we couldn’t fit in a trip down the coast to see it. Bear artists dream of having their work on display at the museum, and I felt a tiny spark of excitement at the idea of the Quinlans discovering Ash’s creations. That is, if they weren’t scared away from our table by my bears.

  Then I saw someone else I recognized: Lauren Vandenbosch, a native San Franciscan and one of the influential bear artists who’d helped foster the teddy bear renaissance back in the early 1980s. Pick up any teddy bear encyclopedia—believe it or not, there are such books, and we actually own a couple—and the odds are good that you’ll find listings and photos of Lauren’s Barbeary Coast Bears, a collection of stuffed animals dressed in authentic Gold Rush-era costumes. Ash and I used to see Lauren regularly at the West Coast bear shows and we owned Black Beart, one of her creations, who wore a black frock coat and was modeled after the celebrated California stagecoach robber.

  It was the first time I’d seen Lauren since we’d left California and, unlike me, the years hadn’t changed her. With her pink, smooth complexion, athletic figure, and curly brunette hair, she didn’t look her age, which had to be at least mid-fifties. As a matter of fact, she didn’t look much older than her picture in one of our teddy bear books, published fifteen years ago; it made me wonder if she had a Dorian Gray-esque portrait hidden in her attic. As I walked past, a sudden gust of warm wind blew her foam-backed “Barbeary Bears” poster from its wooden easel. It fell to the sidewalk in front of me, badly bending one of the upper corners, and by the time she came rushing around from the other side of the table, I’d already picked up the ruined sign.

  Handing it to her, I said, “Don’t you just hate it when that happens? We had a nice poster like that and someone knocked it off its stand at the Niagara show. Eighty-five bucks right down the drain.”

  Her jaw tightened when she saw how badly the poster was damaged. Leaning it against the table, she said, “Darn it, and I just put it up. Between the wind and the skateboarders, I really don’t know why I continue to do this event.”

  “Probably because you’re one of the people who put this show on the map, Lauren. And a lot of these folks came here to get one of your bears.”

  “I suppose.” She squinted at me. “I don’t mean to be rude, but do we know each other?”

  “We met several times, back when my wife and I were just collectors. But it was years ago, and with the crowds that are always around your table, I wouldn’t expect you to remember me.” I extended my hand. “I’m Brad Lyon.”

  Lauren released my hand and waggled a finger at me. “Wait, I remember. Your wife was interested in making teddy bears and you bought Black Beart.”

  “What a memory,” I said. “I’m impressed.”

  “But . . .” She looked down at my cane. “You . . .”

  “I was hurt on the job when I was with the SFPD. Now Ashleigh and I are making teddy bears. In fact, we’re almost neighbors.” I hooked a thumb over my shoulder. “Our table is back there.”

  “Congratulations, but I hope that doesn’t mean you’ve stopped collecting.”

  “Oh no, we always bring one or two bears back from shows. We’re addicted.”

  “Good, because if you’ve got a second, I’d love to show you my new Age of A-bear-ius collection.” She pointed to the table where there stood a protest march’s worth of hippie-attired bears with long hair made from distressed yarn. “And you’re in luck; I give other artists a ten-percent discount.”

  “Thanks for thinking of me, but I was just on my way somewhere. Maybe I’ll come back in a little while,” I said, hoping my tone didn’t betray my slight annoyance over her clumsy segue into trying to sell me a bear. “And about the sign; do you have some packing tape and—I don’t know—maybe a couple of pencils or something?”

  “I think so. Why?”

  “You might be able to jury-rig a splint to keep that corner relatively flat. It’s possible you could fix it enough to use the poster for the show.”

  “That’s a great idea. Thanks.”
Her eyes flicked in the direction of a woman who’d stopped to examine the Barbeary Coast Bears and I knew she was concerned about missing a potential customer.

  “Well, I know you’re busy, so I’ll let you get back to work. It was a pleasure seeing you again. And thank you for being one of the people who infected us with the teddy bear-collecting virus.”

  “My pleasure, and if I get the chance, I’ll try to come down and see your bears.” Lauren gave me a wan smile as she darted toward the table.

  “Ash would be thrilled. Our sign says ‘Lyon’s Tigers and Bears,’ ” I said, suspecting that she hadn’t heard me.

  I started toward city hall, but hadn’t gone much farther than ten yards when the guy in the bear costume reappeared from around a corner, tramping in my direction. Since I was still in Boy Scout mode, I decided to do another good deed and offer him an encouraging word or two. I stepped into his path as we approached each other and gave him a casual, friendly wave to indicate I wanted to speak to him. The guy obviously didn’t want to stop, but there wasn’t much room for him to maneuver with the crowds and he was obliged to slow down.

  As he tried to sidestep around me, I put my hand on his arm and said, “I know you probably didn’t volunteer for this job, but we all appreciate what you’re doing. So, thank you and try to have a little fun. It might make the time go more quickly.”

  The bear jerked his arm free from my grasp, and as he stomped past, a muffled male voice from behind the smiling bear’s face snapped, “Hey, bite me, you old fart.”

  Although I’d turned forty-eight back in July, the fact is that I do look old enough to remember when Ronald Reagan was best known as Bonzo the Chimpanzee’s costar. Still, you don’t expect spite from a teddy bear. My surprise gave way to complete shock as the costumed man then barreled up to the Barbeary Bears space, shoved Lauren’s customer aside, grabbed one side of the aluminum folding-table and threw it into the air, sending the hippie and Gold Rush bears flying. Lauren fell backwards onto the grass and rolled to avoid the falling table, which slammed to the ground only inches from her legs. There were cries of alarm as the teddy bear fans tried to distance themselves from the rampaging mascot.

  Meanwhile, the costumed attacker snatched up Lauren’s metal cashbox from the ground and tucked it under his left arm, which I supposed now made him a rob-bear. But there wasn’t time to dream up any more wretched puns, because the guy pivoted and began running back the way he’d come from—in my direction. That was when I made my first mistake: I decided that I was too hemmed in by innocent folks to risk clobbering the robber with my cane, so instead I tried to make an open-field tackle, which would have been a challenge even if I’d possessed two good legs. I dove for his fuzzy midsection, but as he rumbled past, the bear gave me a crushing straight-arm to the face, worthy of legendary NFL running back Jim Brown. The blow knocked me backwards and my cane went flying as I crashed onto the grass. By the time I rolled over and shook the stars from my vision, I could only watch as the bear ran toward West Napa Street and disappeared from sight.

  The shouting and atmosphere of panic didn’t diminish much, even after the crook was gone. There were repeated shouts for someone to call 911, strident voices demanding to know what had happened, and several kids sobbing with terror. Meanwhile, I was helped to my feet and someone handed me my cane as I assured everyone that I was fine and didn’t need medical attention.

  Suddenly, Ash was there. She hugged me tightly while saying in a frightened and slightly annoyed voice, “I knew I’d find you here. Are you all right?”

  “Fine but pissed. I had a shot at tackling the guy, but he got away.”

  “What guy?”

  “The dude in the bear suit. He just trashed Lauren Vandenbosch’s display table and then Two-Elevened her,” I replied, using the California penal code section for robbery. “I wonder how she’s doing.”

  We wove our way through the milling crowd and I received yet another disagreeable surprise. A visibly trembling Lauren stood next to the wrecked table, clutching a teddy bear to her chest and listening in fearful silence to one of my least favorite people in the world.

  Two

  Ash saw my jaw tighten. “What’s wrong?”

  “Scumbag at twelve o’clock . . . or any other time of day or night for that matter,” I said quietly.

  “You know him?”

  “Yep. That’s Merv the Perv Bronsey, the vice squad’s king of kinks. I thought I smelled manure.”

  “That creepy detective you reported to Internal Affairs?”

  “Several times. And in what alternate universe would you expect to find him at a teddy bear show?”

  “Lauren doesn’t exactly look thrilled to be talking to him.”

  “No woman ever is.”

  “Let’s go a little closer.” Ash pulled on my hand.

  The most charitable thing I could say about Bronsey was that he was too lazy to pursue the more arduous forms of police corruption. He might not accept bribes, but he would spend hours conducting “business inspections” of nude bars, and often seized hardcore porn magazines from adult book-shops under the pretext of examining them for pictures of runaway girls. Having someone like Bronsey in the SFPD vice enforcement bureau was sort of like putting Michael Vick in charge of a dog shelter. But the sad fact is cop work is like any other profession. There are two roads to career advancement: One is to work hard and the other is to become a human remora and attach yourself to the back of a sharklike boss, which—big surprise, considering he was a natural born suck-up—was the path Bronsey had chosen.

  As we neared, we could hear that Bronsey sounded tickled as he said, “Like I said, it’s a damn shame about this . . . random destruction. I’d really hate to see it happen again, but you never can tell.”

  “I told you, I don’t know where Kyle is,” Lauren sniffled.

  “Not that it’s in any way connected with this tragedy . . .” He flashed a toothy smile. Tall and beefy with long salt-and-pepper hair worn in a ponytail, Bronsey was dressed in a shabby pastel-colored suit and T-shirt ensemble that had gone out of style with Miami Vice. “But, wrong answer, lady. And maybe you’d better think about how terrible it would be if some crazy bear came to your house tonight.”

  “You know, that sounds an awful lot like a threat, Merv.” I probably should have kept my mouth shut, but I’ve always hated bullies, especially if they’re backing their play with a cop’s badge.

  Surprised, Bronsey pivoted, pulled his mirrored sunglasses down to look at me, and chuckled. “Well, if it ain’t limpy Lyon, my favorite snitch. How’s life as a cripple?”

  “Not bad, since, unlike yours, my disability is just physical.”

  He ignored me to focus on Ashleigh. “And this must be your wife. Always wanted to meet her.” He leered at Ash and said, “Seems to me that a fine-looking woman like you could do better than this gimp.”

  My hand tightened around my cane, but before I could do anything Ash gave him a contemptuous smile and said, “Stick to smut books, Merv. I’ve heard you wouldn’t know what to do with a real woman.”

  Bronsey’s cheeks flushed and his eyes narrowed with anger. “Someone needs to teach you some respect.”

  “My mama always said that respect is earned, and you never give it to gutter trash,” said Ash, anger causing her usually dormant Virginia mountain accent to emerge.

  “Your mama—”

  I stepped between Ash and Bronsey. “Don’t go there, Merv. Not unless you want to fight both of us. And do you really want to make things any worse for yourself?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This woman was just the victim of a robbery and the only thing you can think to do is threaten her? That’s egregious misconduct, even for you. I want your supervisor out here right now.”

  Bronsey squared his shoulders and sneered, “I don’t work for the PD anymore. I’ve got my own private investigation agency.” He glared at me, then his gaze shifted to something in the distanc
e behind us. He turned to Lauren and snapped, “We aren’t done. I’ll see you very soon.”

  Bronsey turned, paused briefly to kick one of the fallen teddy bears from his path, and then walked quickly across the grass toward First Street. I looked over to see the reason for his unexpected retreat: Two Sonoma cops were threading their way through the crowds toward us. By the time they arrived, Bronsey was lost to sight.

  I turned to Lauren. “I saw you fall. Are you okay?”

  “I wasn’t hurt. I’m okay.”

  “Yeah, but you were robbed.”

  “It was just a little money and none of my bears were stolen.” Lauren brushed a stray ringlet of brunette hair from her eyes. “Still, thanks for your help with Bronsey.”

  “Oh, I think seeing the other cops scared him off more than anything I did. What was he harassing you about, anyway?”

  “It’s all a huge misunderstanding, but thanks for asking.” Lauren stooped to pick up the table. It was obvious she didn’t want to talk about it.

  Once the Sonoma officers learned that a robbery had occurred, the younger one began looking for witnesses while the senior cop spoke to Lauren. I waited, knowing they’d also want to interview me. Realizing it might be a few minutes before I was free, I suggested to Ash that she return to our unguarded table. You don’t usually worry about theft at a bear show, but considering what had just happened, there was no point in tempting fate. Ash grudgingly agreed, but even though I promised to join her the moment I was finished, she looked worried.