by Oliver Skye
By now, Desmond’s jaw was beginning to brush up against his collar.
‘Then perhaps it’ll dawn on you that Ichabod is a force to reckon with,’ Ulysses smirked, ‘just to put it mildly. You’re the right man for the job, Desmond,’ he said in a gentler tone, ‘can’t ya see that? You have exclusive access to Project Achilles because of Dolmarine—’
‘Dolly!’ Desmond gasped. ‘How’d y’know about Dolly ... and her real name?’
Ulysses grinned.
‘We know about, an’ can do a lot more than yuh think. Dolmarine’s the perfect cover. ’Cause of her info, y’know what’s goin’ down in the prof’s lab. We don’t wanna do the job ourselves for good reasons. That’s why we’re willin’ tah pay ya well to do it for us.’
That said, Ulysses got up and adjusted his hat.
‘Contact this safe number,’ he said, handing over a scrap of paper. ‘Only use payphones ... no cells. From now on, yuh deal with me directly. When yuh call, ask for Ulysses!
‘Tyger, Tyger, burning bright,’ he added cryptically, ‘in the forests of the night....’
Tossing some change on the table, Ulysses turned to leave.
‘Hang on ... er ... Ulysses!’ Desmond demanded hesitantly. ‘Who, or what, is Ichabod?’
Ulysses, his raincoat lapels hiding his cheeks, his hat brim half covering his eyes, returned Desmond’s gaze. ‘Ichabod MUST be obeyed. He’s the greatest scientist alive. Ichabod has become the Organisation.’
Turning, Ulysses walked out of the diner.
Despondently, Desmond watched as the secretive man’s back melted into the crowd.
Desmond continued to sit at Lenny’s Diner tormenting himself with memories of The Walrus and his hairy henchman.
Ichabod! The greatest scientist ... controllin’ the proceedings ... controllin’ Manhattan’s power grid! What does it all mean? Slimy slugs ’n snails! It feels like a giant web’s entanglin’ me without knowin’ where the spider is. And what if I can’t get hold of them shoes? Ichabod’ll send his entire Freak Show after me!
Desmond vividly imagined cement shoes dragging him down in a flurry of bubbles to the bottom of the East River. There seemed no way out: he simply had to deliver what the strange men wanted.
While making his way back to The Smokestack, accompanied by premonitions of doom amidst Manhattan’s hustle and bustle, Desmond Blaken realised his life was spiralling out of control: the shoes, he felt, were rapidly becoming his nemesis.
‘I took one bite of the Big Apple and ended up with a hell of a stomach ache,’ he heard someone comment along the packed sidewalk. ‘But it’s still the greatest place on earth!’
Dizzy in a Pickle
DESMOND DIDN’T tell Dolly about what had happened in Hell’s Kitchen the previous night. Arriving back after midnight, he refused to answer her many questions. He also hadn’t told her about the $50,000 the underworld men had given him. All he’d let on about was the then upcoming meeting with a man code-named Ulysses. Now, on the way back from Lenny’s Diner, Desmond felt he should tell Dolly everything, if only to elicit some sympathy. However, he wouldn’t mention that Ulysses seemed to know all about her.
Arriving back home at 14h20, Desmond showed Dolly the wads of bills he’d hidden under the stairwell the night before. Then he told her about the Black Swan Inn and his encounter with Ulysses. Once he explained what Yoris Krasnodepsky and Ulysses had instructed him to do, he noticed Dolly turning pale.
‘What’s up, Doll?’ Desmond stammered. ‘You look kinda waxy-white in the face.’
Dolly stared at Desmond, her eyes as large as an owl’s. ‘Oh, Dizzy, what’ve I gotten us intah!’ she blurted, close to tears. ‘I didn’t know this’d happen ... whadda we gonna do now?’
‘Whatcha mean, Doll?’ Desmond whined. Dolly’s behaviour was causing his belly to churn. But nothing had prepared him for what she was about to tell him, while nervously twisting strands of her hair.
‘Prof McBatty’s travellin’ to England tomorrow mornin’,’ she said shakily. ‘I heard him talkin’ to his scientist friend Doctor Grammaticus the other day. I didn’t mention it tah ya, ’cause at the time it didn’t seem important. But the prof’s booked on a 9:30 am flight ... flight 219 to London. Just this mornin’ he made arrangements for me to look after the lab and his rooms while he’s away.’
Desmond gaped at Dolly for at least half a minute without blinking. Seconds later the blood rushed to his head causing his ears to turn bright red, leaving the rest of his face a ghastly grey. His mouth moved as if trying to say something. ‘Grrrraaaaaaaghleeee!’ was all that escaped his contorted lips.
‘Are yuh okay, Dizzy?’ Dolly asked anxiously.
Desmond leaped to his feet, his eyes popping. ‘Trillions of hairy tarantulas!’ he yelled, flecks of spittle flying through the air. ‘The prof’s goin’ to London ... SO SOON!’
Dolly nodded solemnly.
Desmond glared round him wildly. ‘The Walrus, Ulysses, Ichabod! They already know about the prof’s plans. But they didn’t say it’d all happen so soon!’
‘The who?’ Dolly asked wide-eyed.
‘I can’t tell ya, Dolly, cause I’m already too deep ... deep.’
Desmond held his head in his hands, breathing deeply. The more he thought about the last twenty-four hours’ goings-on, the more confused and frightened he felt.
‘All I know is that I’ve gotta get hold of them ’gator skin shoes before the prof leaves. You must help me, Doll! ’Cause, if yuh don’t I’m dead meat—’
Desmond paced the room while Dolly fidgeted with her sleeves.
‘Ichabod will put me to death ... death!’ Desmond moaned. ‘I’m already at their mercy. They know everythang about me. They even know—’
He quickly stopped himself.
‘Ichabod?’ Dolly asked. ‘What’s that?’
Desmond gazed at Dolly, despair etched on his blotchy face. ‘I’m not supposed tah tell ya anythang about Ichabod ... but according to Ulysses, he’s the greatest scientist alive. And I’ve accepted the dough ... I can’t back out now. Have ya ever heard of cement shoes, Doll?’
‘You’ll just have to contact that man, Ulysses, and explain everythang to him,’ Dolly suggested soothingly.
By now Desmond was beside himself, thick veins bulging from his neck and temples. ‘That big-eared moron with his helmeted monkeys ... monkeys,’ he slurred, glaring at Dolly with an incoherent look. ‘Pickin’ his nose in Harlem an’ floggin’ his cheap trinkets on Upper West Side. I betcha he’ll take lodgings with them undertakers in Croke Street....’
Dolly stared at Desmond, wondering what he was babbling on about.
After sitting a while, Desmond began pacing round in circles. ‘I have tah get hold of them lousy shoes TONIGHT,’ he raved. ‘It’s my only chance ... chance. I’m not even allowed to call ’em computer shoes, only Project Achilles—’
‘Project Achilles?’ Dolly asked incredulously.
‘But that’s impossible, Dizzy,’ she added firmly. ‘The prof keeps ’em locked in his big safe ... an’, for sure, I don’t know the combination. Perhaps the best thang is tah follow him along to London—’
‘Yeah! No! ... I mean, right on!’ Desmond cried, whirling round. All at once, he saw the sense in what Dolly was saying.
‘Yeah, Doll, that’s a swell idea. There’s no time to lose. To be safe, I have tah be on the same plane as the prof. At least now we’ve got some dough. All I’ve gotta do now is deliver them crazy cosmic brogues and collect the balance ... a cool $950,000. Mebbe I can filch ’em at the airport before McBatty flies. If not, I’ll follow him to London and relieve him of ’em there. At least there’ll be no tell-tale break-in signs at the lab....’
Desmond felt confident again. ‘I’ll call Ulysses from JFK and tell him what’s goin’ down. Quick, Doll, pack me a bag! In the meantime, I’ll take The Smokestack downtown to a travel agent and book a seat to London. ‘Son of a gun!’ he grinned at Dolly, ‘it’s a good thang I
’ve got a passport on account of visitin’ yer mama in Toronto last Fall.’
Desmond felt extremely lucky when later that afternoon he was able to book a seat on Flight 219, due to a cancellation, departing the following morning.
It must be a sign! he told himself, wringing his hands.
While sitting down to a late meal of Spaghetti Bolognese, Desmond repeatedly looked at his watch.
‘What’s up, Dizzy?’ Dolly asked, looking up. Slurping up a string of spaghetti Desmond shook his head, accidently spraying sauce on his collar. ‘Nothin’, Doll ... nothin’ at all––’
‘Why can’t you tell me more about this Ichabod thang?’ Dolly demanded, folding her arms.
‘I was gonna keep quite, but I can see that aint gonna get me nowhere. You wanna know what Ichabod can do? Well, in just over half an hour from now, Manhattan’s lights are gonna go out ... at precisely ten o’ clock. That’s what Ulysses told me. Five minutes later the power’s gonna go on again. Then ya’ll realise what kinda people we’re dealin’ with....’
Dolly burst out laughing, seeing the expression on Desmond’s face. ‘You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me, right?’ she blurted, starting to feel uneasy.
Desmond jumped up, a look of urgency etched on his face. ‘Let’s get The Smokestack up an’ runnin’! We’ve still got twenty-five minutes to get to the East River. Then you can see for yourself what’ll happen.’
After spending five minutes getting The Smokestack started, Dolly and Desmond eventually arrived at the Long Island ferry terminal.
Manhattan’s skyline was ablaze.
Staring at the impressive sight, Desmond’s resolve began to fade. ‘If the power doesn’t go down, then perhaps the threat aint as great as I thought ... and these Ichabod people are all off their trolleys,’ Desmond told himself, gripping Dolly’s hand more firmly. ‘Then I’ll go back to The Black Swan Inn and hand the money back to that creepy consignee ... an get outta New York.’
He had barley finished thinking when, block by block, portion by portion, the island across the waterway began falling into darkness. In Desmond’s mind, the phenomena was accompanied by loud recurring industrial-type noises: bang ... bang ... bang....
Finally, the entire island lay in complete obscurity. The only vestiges of light came from the vast glow of traffic coming to a complete standstill among the panicky blare of automobile horns. In the distance, from across the East River, various sirens and alarms began their ghostly wail.
‘Holy, flyin’ doughnuts!’ Dolly gasped, clutching Desmond more tightly. ‘This can’t actually be happenin’!
‘One thang’s for sure,’ Desmond croaked, clutching the steering wheel in a vice grip, ‘if I fail tah get what Ichabod wants, I’m well an’ truly fried ... fried!’
Exactly five minutes later, Manhattan’s skyline was once again ablaze with incandescent light.
* * *
Both Desmond and Dolly overslept because of forgetting to reset their radio alarm. Desmond dozed off only an hour before having to leave for the airport. On waking – having just dreamed about a horse kicking him in his midriff – he nearly fell out of bed. When realising what time it was, he jerked bolt upright. ‘I’ll miss the plane!’ he screamed in Dolly’s ear. Dolly, who was dreaming about swimming with a school of tropical fish, nearly jumped out of her skin.
‘I have tah get to the train station NOW!’ Desmond shrieked.
Dolly gaped at him uncomprehendingly.
‘We can’t risk drivin’ to the airport in The Smokestack. If it breaks down—’ Desmond paused, staring at Dolly wide-eyed, making a ghastly hissing sound and drawing a finger across his throat ‘—they’ll k-i-l-l me,’ he croaked.
Dolly was still waking up and couldn’t understand where all the fish had gone, let alone the words Desmond was mouthing at her. When she noticed what time it was, she yanked the curtains open and screamed, ‘Get crackin’, Dizzy! Ya’ll miss yer flight to London....’
Soon Desmond was rushing downstairs.
The Smokestack wasn’t easy to get going at the best of times. When Dolly joined him five minutes later, Desmond still hadn’t succeeded. She became alarmed at the extent to which his eyes were protruding from their sockets. Secretly she wondered if he’d start foaming at the mouth.
‘Ya rotten piece of junk!’ Desmond yelled, jumping out and kicking the already dented fender. ‘I’ll pound you to pulp at the junkyard an’ catapult yuh intah space....’
Finally getting the old Chevy started, they arrived at Forest Hills station with only seconds to spare. Dashing for the platform, Desmond barged into the crowded airport shuttle seconds before the doors hissed closed. As it pulled off, Dolly tearfully waved. Desmond, grimacing, pressed his cheek against the window, trying to smile.
* * *
Arriving at John F Kennedy International Airport twenty minutes later, Desmond quickly located a row of payphones. After a lot of bashing and yelling, he finally managed to get one to work.
‘You’ll be called back shortly,’ a faraway voice said after he dialled the number Ulysses had given him. Desmond made sure he repeated his payphone’s number correctly to avoid any mistakes. Now he stood close by, expecting the phone to ring any moment. ‘Why all this wretched cloak ’n dagger hooey?’ he griped as the minutes ticked by.
Laying hands on the professor’s shoes before boarding the aircraft was paramount to Desmond. Yet he wasn’t sure if he’d be wearing them. If he were, he imagined wrestling the elderly man to the floor and savagely wrenching his computer shoes off his feet.
Perhaps he’s carrying ’em in the special case Dolly described to me ... which’ll make gettin’ hold of ’em a lot easier.
Desmond knew he couldn’t afford hanging around any longer. He still had to check-in his luggage, as well as spot the professor. Also, Ulysses had to know what was going on. Desmond couldn’t risk him thinking he’d disappeared with the cash: that would only put Dolly in danger.
The payphone remained stubbornly silent.
Desmond wondered if he’d given the right number after all, or if the voice on the other end had written it down correctly. He convinced himself that the payphone was faulty and didn’t take incoming calls. Despite his conundrum, he decided against phoning back ... just in case there was an engaged signal when Ulysses did call.
Meanwhile, Desmond jealously guarded the booth from potential intruders.
While willing the phone to ring and looking at his watch for the fiftieth time, a woman appeared with a handbag-sized dog on her arm. As the aloof, well-dressed lady strode towards Desmond’s phone booth, the fluffy dog growled at him. The woman was just about to lift the receiver when Desmond noticed her.
‘Don’t touch that phone, Jenny ... Jenny!’ he snarled, rushing up to her. With a yelp, the woman jumped away from him. The dog – Desmond still wasn’t sure if it was some kind of furry rodent ... perhaps a tame rat – started yapping hysterically.
Then the phone rang.
Frantically Desmond shoved the woman with her dog aside and grabbed the receiver. ‘Listen!’ he spluttered, recognising Ulysses’ voice. ‘There’s a whole lotta pressure goin’ down here. I’m at JFK ’cause, as y’know, the prof’s flyin’ to London with his crazy shoes ... I mean, Project Achilles. Apparently, he’s gonna show ’em off to his blue-eyed scientist friend, Plato. I’m gonna try snatch ’em before he boards the plane. Otherwise, I’m booked on the same Flight 219 to Heathrow. The only hitch is, I ain’t spotted him yet ... yet....
‘An’ I wish I’d never heard of them lousy shoes!’ Desmond blurted after taking a deep breath. ‘I shoulda stayed at Giddy’s and minded muh own business. An’ why didn’t yuh tell me McBatty was leavin’ so soon? I don’t even know if I’m gonna make the flight....’
Ulysses listened to Desmond’s raving while holding the receiver away from his ear. ‘Cool it, Blaken!’ he growled. ‘I’ve told yuh before ... keep yer voice down! This kinda thang happens in our game ... it’s called dealin’ wit
h the unexpected. Just follow yer instincts whether at JFK or at Heathrow ... or in London itself. And keep the professor’s mouth shut at all costs ... once you’ve secured the package ... whichever way yuh have tah ... includin’ elimination!’
‘Elimination!’ Desmond yelled. ‘You mean actually murder him? Ya’ll think I’m outta muh lizard. D’yuh really imagine I’m just gonna—’
A few passengers, hurrying to catch their flights, gave Desmond surprised looks.
‘Shut up, Blaken!’ Ulysses snarled. ‘Yer already in too deep ... dontcha remember what happened last night? Now listen! Whatever you do, accomplish Project Achilles before the professor gets on the plane. If that don’t work out, and in case yuh do wind up in London, here’s a contact number. The code name is Griffin ... he’ll give yuh assistance. Don’t fail us, Blaken! Otherwise, the revenge of Ichabod will be swift ’n terrible....’
With an ominous click, the line went dead.
* * *
Though having never met him, Desmond had seen Dolly’s employer a few times over the last year. Besides, Desmond knew he stood out like a sore thumb because of his quaint appearance. Still holding the silent receiver to his ear, Desmond couldn’t believe his eyes when Professor McCrackenbatten shuffled right past, whistling to himself. He was wearing a rumpled coat, a scarf, his worn-out felt hat and earmuffs, appearing every bit the absent-minded scientist he was. He was also carrying a small brown suitcase – plastered with travel stickers from all over the world – and what looked like an alligator-skin shoe case.
‘Carrying?’ Desmond asked himself aloud. He was almost sure he’d seen the shoe case floating besides the professor just above knee height! Blinking intently he looked again, seeing the elderly man was carrying it after all.
