Mark, There's a Beagle in My Bedroom!

by Michael Ciardi

Whoever believed that camping was solely intended for kids had never ventured into the redwood groves of Monte Rio, California in mid-July. Here, sequestered within a sylvan backdrop, members of an exclusive club gathered to rekindle the follies of their youth. But, of course, it was the clandestine businesses of this New Order of campers that kept them reuniting each summer. Hal “Hooty” Molek had achieved an “old guard” status among such elite gentlemen who referred to themselves as Bohemians.

  At nearly seventy-years-old, Molek was getting too old and ornery to trudge across the countryside in pursuit of renegade agents, but even he received directives from those of a statelier rank. Someone more influential allocated FIDO’s cleanup as Molek’s pet project, and matters of this nature were never debatable. Molek had already coordinated the Class V microchips as the focus of the Grove’s Lakeside Talks at this year’s upcoming encampment. He promised the Super Class that news of this magnitude hadn’t been shared at these festivities since The Manhattan Project in 1942.

  Of course, the anticipation of this milestone careened into jeopardy shortly after Mark Flyer escaped from the operation compound with Bruce. Three weeks of relentless tracking had lured the MUTTS commander from the Golden to Garden State. But even as Molek and his crew edged closer to apprehending Mark, a sense of urgency overwhelmed him. In terms of rogue agents, Mark’s defection wasn’t unprecedented. Others fled from the Agency in the past, but the Bohemian Club’s ceremonial master hadn’t directly appointed those individuals. Molek’s reputation now hinged on Mark’s capture. He often claimed that it was far easier for an invalid to break out of Alcatraz than to elude his clutches from more than a day. Someone was finally testing his braggadocio.

  At this hour, Molek’s white Cadillac Escalade was parked conspicuously at a rest stop alongside the New Jersey Turnpike. He directed his chauffeur, aptly nicknamed Hics, to wait at this location until they received further orders. Hics suffered from a chronic diaphragmatic flutter, which was a medical term for what was more commonly called the hiccups. In order to counteract his symptoms, he drank more water than a dehydrated camel, but this only exasperated his problem as far as Molek was concerned.

  If Jerry Garcia had jammed beyond the age of fifty-three, he might’ve passed as Molek’s doppelganger. Similar to his protégé, Molek sported a full grizzled beard, save for the tobacco stains framing his lower lip and nostrils. As it stood, he verified in both in dress and demeanor that the last of the hippies hadn’t all gratefully died. On most occasions, he found comfort in the tie-dyed rags of his subculture. Bandanas and Indian beads were still staples in his wardrobe. He even wore leather sandals formerly stowed in the back of a VW Vanagon since the 1960s. And keeping to the formulaic image of these hipsters, he smoked more weed than a wildfire on the African Savanna.

  Whether at home in the forest or on a frenzied tour to safeguard the New World Order, Molek was rarely seen in public without his stanch companion clinging to his shoulder. There was nothing cute or endearing about a three hundred pound beatnik caressing a parrot so assiduously. For reasons Molek never disclosed, he had a proclivity toward one particular albino macaw. It was more than obvious that he had a penchant for a touch of white feathers.

  The pampered parrot relished the attention. She peered at Molek with her eyes, seemingly immersing riddles and tricks within her topaz gaze. The duo had become inseparable over the past two years, and made almost anyone who observed them wary in the process.

  “H…how much…lo-longer do we gotta sit he-here?” sputtered Hics. He swigged water from a plastic bottle, but the placebo wasn’t working.

  Molek kneaded Nepo’s plumage with his pudgy knuckles. The macaw’s voice sounded like a tiny motorboat. Although he appeared calm, a tempest swelled behind Molek’s splintered eyeballs as he contemplated Hic’s question. He glanced at his watch again, which revealed the time on a horned owl’s face.

  “Until the thrill is gone,” Molek said, but he fixated his concentration on the bird. Nepo had a wink of malice in her eyes as she nibbled at her stiletto-like talons with her beak. Molek kept his cellphone and an open laptop in front of him on the car’s dashboard. They waited a few minutes longer before the phone lit up with its signature sound: the overture to Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Cats. Hics looked puzzled by the cellphone’s melody.

  “Is that what I th-think it is?”

  “You got a problem with show tunes, Hics?” Nepo appeared more interested in Hic’s response than Molek. Her feathers jutted out like the barbs on a catfish.

  “Not really. I guess I w-was just expectin’ something different.”

  “Selecting a ringtone is a difficult matter,” Molek quipped. “It isn’t just one of your holiday games.”

  As Hics pondered that allusion with no degree of clarity, Molek picked up his phone from the dashboard. He didn’t have to glance at the screen; he already knew who was calling.

  “Tell me it’s over,” Molek grumbled into the phone, but he knew better than to assume as much.

  Mason’s voice didn’t exactly percolate with enthusiasm either. “We’re getting closer,” he said. “But we haven’t nabbed him yet.” Hearing details that were less than gainful always made Molek antsy. It was even hard to keep Nepo perched on his shoulder under such conditions. Before Molek suffered a full-blown conniption, Mason relayed a few crucial bits of information. “We’ve got a make on this new guy’s vehicle. If the drone squirrel’s pics mean anything, he should be driving an older model car. Looks like a beige Taurus.”

  “A pedestrian choice,” Molek mused.

  “I think the beagle’s with him, too,” Mason returned.

  “It seems Mr. Squealers has merited himself a reboot,” Molek commented. “I’ll get a beat on that Taurus right away. In the meantime, you and Agent Oranger should find out as much as possible about this Kip Hinkle. If Agent Flyer trusted him to transport the beagle alone, he must be a formidable adversary. I want you guys to dig like a couple of voles until we get this guy. Understood?”

  “Affirmative, Hooty,” Mason said. “But did you say voles? Don’t you mean moles?”

  “No, I said what I meant. You’ve never heard of a vole?”

  “I grew up in Jersey City. My neighbors owned a pet sewer rat, but I’ve never seen a vole before.”

  “For our purposes,” Molek explained. “Know that owls love voles. In fact, owls eat them whenever possible and regurgitate their bones and fur in the form of pellets. Unless you and Agent Oranger want to become my voles, I suggest you do precisely as you’re told.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you sound a lot like Walter Cronkite over the phone?” Mason said, attempting to alleviate the tension filtering between them.

  “No one will ever call you a pioneer for such an observation. Give me an update in two hours. And that’s the way it is.”

  Molek clicked off his cellphone and placed it back on the dashboard. At least his hands and legs stopped trembling; Nepo was thankful for that. Hics stationed behind the Caddy’s steering wheel, waiting to take his orders like an overzealous fry cook. Whenever Hics became anxious or sensitive, his hiccups worsened to an extent where he couldn’t string two words together without a broken pattern of speech. Molek knew the infirmities of his cohorts far better than he needed or wanted.

  “Hics,” he suggested. “Why don’t you get out of the car and take a walk around outside? A little evening air might help with your impediment.”

  “I…I…don’t ha-have an impediment.”

  “Sure. And I don’t have a fat ass.”

  “I can just r…roll down the win-window,” Hics said. Molek, of course, attempted a subtler dismissal of his driver’s company before resorting to a more direct command. Obviously, Hics wasn’t any better at taking hints than he would’ve been at delivering public service announcements.

  “I need a few minutes alone,” Molek specified. “Is that too much to ask?”

  “This is the th-third night in a row that y-you wanted me to ta
ke a walk.” Hics realized it was fruitless to argue with Molek. He opened the car’s door begrudgingly, but refused to exit right away. He glanced across the seat and noticed Nepo peering at him with a satisfied expression. “I don’t like the w-way that bird stares at me. She’s always l-looking at me cockeyed.”

  “She was born cross-eyed. It’s a genetic defect.”

  Although displeased with Molek’s rebuttal, Hic’s stepped out of the Caddy and resumed his tantrum in isolation. Once they were alone, Nepo sprang onto the driver’s seat and glared out the window. Molek knew what the macaw was thinking, but in case he needed further clarification, Nepo rarely disappointed.

  “Genetic defect? Have you forgotten I have perfectly good hearing?”

  “Sorry. I had to say something to get rid of him for a few minutes.”

  “I thought he’d never leave,” she clicked. “You really need a new driver; perhaps one with a properly functioning diaphragm.”

  “In time, Nepo, in time. We currently have bigger nuts to crack.”

  “Now you’re making me hungry.”

  Molek’s mouth widened, revealing a gapped-toothed smile. Before committing to any major decision, he usually consulted with his parrot. As he recently discovered, the Class V microchip functioned just as miraculously inside this bird as it had on Bruce. “Do you think Mark’s latest patsy is worth the effort?”

  “If he’s with the beagle now, we have no choice but to make him a priority,” Nepo responded. She continued to groom herself with her beak, pecking with a meticulous motion down the length of her tail feathers.

  “You are certainly a tenacious bird,” Molek said, adoringly.

  “Sometimes,” the bird declared, “I think you wish I was a cat. I can be similar to that if you prefer.”

  “Nonsense, Nepo. I’ve always preferred feathers to fur.”

  Nepo rivaled any macaw’s grin known before her. She then leapt onto Molek’s lap and settled into the warm crevice between his thighs. Then, channeling a bit of Old Possum’s rhetoric, she half-mimicked, “Not since Macaw-vity has there been a catbird of such deceitfulness and suavity.”

  Even Molek wasn’t prepared to debate his pompous parrot on this declaration.

  Chapter 16