Mark, There's a Beagle in My Bedroom!

by Michael Ciardi

Kip Hinkle squandered forty plus years of his life trying to find himself, before he ultimately resolved that the furniture business housed more pockets of hibernation than a kangaroo farm. Maybe he was never going to be hailed as the next 007, but he had more to offer to the world than he managed to achieve while traipsing around in pirate garb during a swashbuckling sales event. Three months after his impromptu stint as a spy, Kip resigned from his position at Bed Mania. It only took him another four months to invest whatever savings he had stashed away into a bicycle shop in his hometown. The money and prestige weren’t anything to brag about, but Kip finally uncovered a hint of satisfaction in a job he groomed for since boyhood.

  Perhaps Kip harbored a bit sentimental longing toward his former alliances. He named his business From Bicycles with Lube, which at least conjured a chortle or two from the locals seasoned enough to remember the trendsetters in the fictional realm of secret agents. But apart from that nod of recognition, Kip hadn’t reserved much hope to speak to any of them ever again. Apparently, those immersed in the trade of stealth rarely relied on rearview mirrors; they simply sidled on to their next assignment without looking back. Maybe it was more than enough for Kip to peddle a few bikes to kids, or replace a chain or gear cassette on an old ten-speed. Either way, for the first time in many years, he became quite comfortable with just being an average guy.

  Most people strive for this sort of normalcy, Kip convinced himself. He worked six days a week at his business, and didn’t yet acquire the need (or money) to hire an extra hand. But fiddling with the mechanics of various bikes gave him a renewed perspective on what truly mattered. Self-sufficiency had almost become an antiquated concept in today’s society, and Kip happily restored this ethic in his daily schedule. Of course, maintaining this routine was another matter. As he soon discovered, it wasn’t necessarily a seamless transition to revert to an ordinary existence following a brush with a spy’s covert lifestyle.

  On what began as just another regular morning of taking inventory and ordering supplies for his shop, Kip’s first customer of the day strolled through the front door with obvious nonchalance. The boy couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old, but no one else followed in behind him. Aside from this peculiarity, the child’s clothing seemed far too formal for a jaunt around a bike shop. His conservative, dark suit looked more appropriate for a funeral service. This by itself merited a second glance from Kip, but he also couldn’t overlook the fact that he might’ve encountered this particular boy before.

  The kid eventually meandered to the back of the shop, where he paused in front of a rack replete with bicycle seats and handlebars. Kip strode casually toward the aisle, observing him as he scanned the randomly situated merchandise. In Kip’s current way of thinking, coincidences of this caliber simply didn’t happen. He knew he had met this child once before, and now he remembered precisely where.

  “Harvey?” Kip called out, hoping to attract the boy’s attention. The lad exposed no reaction. Kip became adamant as he confronted him. “Excuse me, isn’t that your name?”

  “No, sir,” the boy replied. His monotone voice belied his denial.

  “You don’t remember me?” Kip asked, while positioning himself directly beneath the fluorescent glow of an overhead light.

  The boy shrugged his shoulders but barely turned his head. “Nope,” he said with an eruditeness that irritated Kip.

  “You’re that kid on the red tricycle. I know it’s you,” Kip insisted.

  “Sorry,” the boy responded. “I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

  Kip wasn’t convinced, but the boy adopted a poker face that could’ve made Stu Ungar fold his cards. Rather than challenge the boy’s veracity, Kip decided to ascertain what he wanted. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m shopping for horns,” the boy replied.

  “Horns?”

  “Yeah. I need two. I saw an ad in a flyer. It says you’re having a sale on bike horns.”

  “Oh,” Kip thought. It was true. He directed the boy to opposite aisle toward a bin of horns crafted of tin and red rubber. “Those are the ones on sale,” he remarked. “I think they’re three dollars each.”

  The boy approached a bin of what looked like a collection of clown noses. He pulled two from the pile and squeezed the bulbous rubber ends to honk both horns. If he was satisfied, his face showed no trace of it. Kip tried to give the kid the benefit of his doubt, but he was almost certain he had seen him prior to this occasion.

  “Are you sure we haven’t met? I’m almost positive I saw you on the road near Hacklebarney Park about six months ago. I was with a talking dog at the time. Don’t you remember scratching a message in the dirt with a stick?”

  The boy remained impassive to Kip’s claim. “You’ve got the wrong kid,” he mumbled.

  “I don’t think so,” Kip asserted. “How many kids your age wear dressy clothes while riding a fire-engine red trike in the woods?”

  “I don’t know what to say. I’m just here to buy these horns. You said they’re three dollars each, right?”

  Kip searched the boy’s expression for a crack of deceit, but his face remained as impenetrable as a titanium shield. Rather than debate his point any longer, Kip did the only thing he could’ve done under the circumstances. He walked toward the store’s front counter and stepped behind the cash register. While waiting impatiently for the boy to pad up to the counter, he glanced outside and checked the street. He didn’t see any evidence of a tricycle near his storefront outside.

  The boy eventually strode over to Kip and reached up to put the horns on the countertop. He then dipped his fist into his front pocket. Kip begrudgingly rung up the sale on the register. “With tax,” Kip said, “that’ll be six dollars and sixty-six cents.”

  “One second,” the boy said. He then forward six folded dollar bills and set them on the countertop next to the horns. “I only got six bucks,” he said. “I forgot about the tax.”

  Kip thought about denying the boy one of the horns, but figured it wasn’t worth the hassle of having him come back later. “I’ll let you slide on the tax this time,” he said.

  “That’s very kind of you, sir. You seem like a nice man. Confused, but nice.”

  “Yeah,” Kip huffed, still cautiously eyeing the boy’s sooty eyes. “You know what they say about nice guys though, don’t ya?”

  “Do they all end up selling bikes like you?”

  “Maybe that’s the best we can hope for.”

  On that note, the boy grabbed his horns and forwarded a closed-mouth smile at Kip; it was a grin creepy enough to cause the hair to stick up on the back of his neck. The kid then pivoted away and walked methodically toward the door. Kip almost forwarded the obligatory ‘have a good day,’ but he couldn’t focus on anything other than the money as he unfolded it. Each of the six bills seemed inconspicuous at first glance, but after studying the cash more deliberately, Kip noticed a single word written in red ink next to George Washington’s face. The top bill revealed the word ‘BE’. The other bills were similarly marked on the obverse image, each defaced with one word in the following order: ‘I’, ‘ALONE’, ‘TO’, ‘SAVE’, ‘HIM’.

  If Kip had any color left in his wan cheeks it drained like an infected wound. His eyes flicked repeatedly as he mouthed the words aloud several times. “That little demon bastard,” he said under his breath. By the time Kip recomposed his stance and shifted his glare toward the door, the child had already hopped on his red tricycle and started to pedal down the street. Had Kip not already inhaled a breath of adventure from his previous foray, he might’ve left things as they stood. But in this case, being an ordinary guy wasn’t good enough after all.

  No one who knew Kip would’ve ever mistaken him for being spry or a spy, but those same naysayers were not present to observe his latest moves. He vaulted over the counter with a gymnast’s agility and charged outside after the boy. Even at this accelerated pace, Kip’s legs couldn’t close any ground on the surrept
itious tyke.

  “Oh, man,” Kip exclaimed. “Come back here!” His shouts had no influence on the child’s progress. After two blocks, Kip’s second wind sailed fruitlessly to a standstill. He could do nothing other than watch the boy as he coasted down the street and disappeared.

  It should’ve ended there, and Kip was reluctantly resigned to let it do so as he lurched dejectedly back toward his shop. But a noise that sounded like the roar of a mechanical lion startled him. After he pivoted in the direction of this clamor, the source made itself known in an unbridled manner. A Harley Davidson Road King cruised up on the sidewalk in front of Kip. The chrome surrounding the roadster’s whitewall wheels and engine gleamed in the morning sunlight. There was no mistake on who confronted Kip. Mark Flyer removed his helmet to make his identity known; he wasn’t wearing a disguise this time. Bruce sat on the back of the motorcycle’s wide leather seat, sans the helmet.

  “Mark? What are you doing here?” Kip questioned. His voice beamed with curiosity.

  “Well, we sure aren’t shopping for spare parts,” Mark said, glancing at the shingle on Kip’s store. “I got to give you credit, though. It’s a nice little gig ya got here, Kip.”

  “Looks like you’re in like Schwinn,” Bruce commented. Kip’s face lit up with exhilaration upon hearing the beagle’s voice.

  “I can’t believe it,” Kip said to Bruce. “You’re really talking again!”

  “Yeppers.” He then resorted to an old man Michael Corleone voice and remarked, “Just when I thought I was out, they pulled me back in.”

  “What happened?”

  “I just got an upgrade. They’re calling it the 5S microchip. Nutty, huh?”

  Kip recognized a significant change in the beagle’s voice. He now had a distinct Scottish brogue. “What’s with the new accent?”

  “It’s the latest craze. I call it my trans-Bonder,” Bruce declared. “Don’t ya think it gives me a certain panache?”

  “I have to admit, it does make you sound distinguished,” Kip replied.

  Bruce waved off this remark with his paw and said, “Meh, you know what they say: here today, Sean tomorrow.”

  “It looks like you’ve got yourself a sweet ride now,” Kip said to Mark, admiring the bike. “What made you switch from a Jeep to a Harley?”

  “He wanted to be a road hog without taking up too much space,” Bruce noted. “Now are you coming with us or not?”

  Mark revved the Harley by torqueing the throttle, drawing attention to the motorcycle’s vibrating engine. He saw no reason to pretend that they had time to dally. “We’d love to sit here and shoot the breeze with you, Kip, but we got some serious work to do,” he said.

  “I thought it was over.”

  “Haven’t we taught you better? It’s never over, Kip,” Mark said.

  “At least not until Roseanne Barr sings the National Anthem again,” Bruce added.

  “I can’t just leave my shop unattended. I have a business to run here,” Kip rebutted.

  “You’re hawking bicycles,” Mark said. “I’m pretty sure the world isn’t gonna shut down if you locked up for a few hours.”

  Kip wished he could’ve been as spontaneous as Mark, but he had his reservations about hopping on the back of a Harley without knowing more information. “Who are you after this time?” he asked.

  “A tatterdemalion on a trike,” Bruce said.

  “Holy triple sixes! That freaky kid was just in my store five minutes ago. He bought two horns, but I don’t understand why.”

  “Did ya ever see a devil with just one horn?”

  “Good point.”

  “As always, best in show,” Bruce returned.

  “Look at it this way, Kip. Not many guys in your shoes get an opportunity to be a secret agent twice,” Mark reminded him.

  “Especially in the same story,” Bruce said.

  “But where are we going next?”

  “If all goes as planned, hopefully right into trilogy town. And with the proper marketing and a little luck, we could be looking at prequels up the wazoo,” Bruce said.

  “Prequels? Nobody really cares what came before, Bruce,” Kip stated.

  “Oh, really? Did your wife ever care when you came before her?”

  “She’s my ex.”

  “I rest my case, flash pants,” Bruce muttered. “Now get on the hog. Nobody Beals on us.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘bails’?”

  Bruce rolled his eyes and said, “That’s one thing I’ve always admired about you, Kippy. Just when I start to think that you can’t make me look any smarter, you drop one notch lower on the DUH Meter.”

  Kip could’ve straightforwardly dismissed Mark and Bruce at this point and returned to tinkering with the bikes in his shop. At least it was secure there. But how long would he be satisfied with the illusion of safety? He ultimately decided that sometimes living simply simply wasn’t living.

  “What the bleep?” Kip said with a roguish grin as he jumped on the back of the Harley behind Mark. “You only live once, right?”

  “Twice if you’re a spy,” Bruce simpered.

  “Hold on tight,” Mark advised. He then revved the Harley and wheeled in forward motion. Even though Kip loved bikes since he was young, he had never ridden upon one with an engine until this instance. The motorcycle hit the first incline to build up its momentum, and then swerved to the base of a steep hill. Kip’s eyes widened with wonder as a breeze flushed his cheeks.

  “Here comes an upgrade,” Bruce yelped. “It’s gung-ho time!” More so than he had imagined since his last adventure, Kip seemed ready for the road ahead.

  “Wowsers!” Kip shouted. “I really feel like a kid again!”

  Bruce wouldn’t have willingly admitted it, but he wanted Kip to savor that declaration for as long as humanly possible. Maybe that really was the whole point of this little jaunt anyhow.

  THE END

  Also by Michael Ciardi:

  Elf’s Eve

  The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs

  The Serial Comic

  Phantoms of the Moon

  Songs of a Peach Tree