She’d been doing this important job for three weeks now. The weather was getting hotter every day. The Yarborough double-wide was a nice one, with green shutters and a shiny metal skirt around the bottom to hide the wheels. The short walk to Mrs. Yarborough’s place was warm, but Immy didn’t mind. It was early enough in the summer that the grass wasn’t burned out yet.
That day, she could smell the sweet scent of a newly cut lawn, mixed with the hot dust that swirled up from the road when a car went by. When she got there, she stopped in the shade of the old, spreading live oak in the front yard to cool off a mite, then went around to the back.
She opened the side gate, as usual, and made sure to close it behind her so Sweetums and Tweetums wouldn’t get out. Mrs. Yarborough always locked the front door—most people in Saltlick didn’t lock any doors—but she left the one to the kitchen open for Immy. When Immy went into the house, the two pint-sized dogs came running. She knelt on the floor, letting the dogs jump on her and lick her face.
She let them out to do their business, scooped up the business, then threw the ratty tennis balls for them to fetch and return, slobber-laden, so she could throw them again. After the romp in the yard, Immy called Sweetums and Tweetums inside and filled their water dishes. Just before she left, she fished a couple of Bitey-Bonez out of the box on the shelf and tossed them to the dogs. Their acrobat leaps to catch the treats in midair made her laugh. She blew them kisses as she left. What she wouldn’t give to have two little dogs like that!
On Wednesday of the next week, Immy tromped up the wooden porch to the back door, but didn’t push it open because she heard something different. There were voices inside. Every day so far, the trailer house had been empty, except for the dogs. But these were the voices of people. Grown men, it sounded like to her.
Immy had already read every Nancy Drew book in the Saltlick library and was starting on the Hardy Boys, so she knew a thing or two about detecting. She put her ear next to the door. It worked! She could tell what the voices were saying.
“Hey, little buddy, whatcha say? Are you the cutest thang?”
“Are you a sweet widdle baby?”
The voices had the sound of Mrs. Yarborough’s boys, but Immy had never heard language like that from them. Sometimes her mother clapped her hands over Immy’s ears when the twins strolled by so she wouldn’t hear their bad cuss words. Immy could hear through her mother’s fingers, but she never let on.
Were they talking to the cocker spaniels? It didn’t seem likely. Immy got the impression they didn’t like their mother’s dogs. She’d seen one of them toe Sweetums out of his way. Not exactly a kick, but not a nice thing to do.
Anyway, she needed to do her job, so she knocked on the metal door.
“Who the hell is it?” Now that sounded more like a Yarborough twin.
“It’s me, Immy. Come to let Sweetums and Tweetums out.”
A big, black-bearded roughneck swung the door open and let her in. “Take ‘em out, then. Cussed nuisances.” Yep, they didn’t like the spaniels.
But the other twin cradled a small reddish animal in his hairy arms.
“What’s that?” Immy asked.
He held it out. “Our new huntin’ dog. Pure bred. It’s gonna put these wimpy prisses to shame, you wait ‘n’ see.” He tweaked the puppy’s ears and the dog’s tiny pink tongue swiped at his none-too-clean hand.
“You got another dog?” she asked.
“Them ain’t our dogs,” said the clean-shaven brother. “Them’s our mom’s. This’n’s ours.”
“Do you want me to take care of it when I come over for Sweetums and Tweetums?”
They both laughed, a harsh, unhappy sound. “Naw, we’ll take care of him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Brute.”
“Brutus?” Immy asked, thinking she had misheard.
“Brute. Like in big bruiser brute. He’s gonna get huge. He’s part wolf.”
Immy eyed the rusty-colored fluff ball skeptically. He didn’t look too much like a wolf.
Even though the brothers said they’d take care of Brute, Immy found herself letting him out with the spaniels every day. The puppy was there and the guys weren’t, so she figured he might as well go out. She found out he liked Bitey-Bonez even better than the bigger dogs, even though they were huge in his tiny mouth. He didn’t leap for them, but sat up and panted, giving her the cutest look with his big, brown doggie eyes.
The next week, on Monday, she was home, finishing up her lunch when she looked at the clock and decided it was time to go to the dogs. She’d had a nice lunch since her mother was home from work. Hortense usually worked at the library Monday through Friday, but was taking a vacation day.
“Imogene,” her mother said. “Would you, by happenstance, be desirous of viewing a moving picture at the cinema this afternoon?”
Immy’s mother was a librarian and had a large vocabulary. That’s what she always said.
“Goody! Yes, please!” She knew Shrek had just started playing at the Dollar Theater in Wymee Falls.
“Your father is taking the afternoon off and will meet us there.”
Immy loved her mother, an intelligent and educated woman, but she idolized her father. He was a Wymee Falls police officer, and the handsomest, bravest, smartest man who had ever lived.
She danced over to the Yarborough house in ecstasy. An afternoon at the movie—and with her father. The only thing that could be better would be if he would let her have her own dog, and maybe a cat, and a small horse for her backyard.
She skipped through the gate to the Yarborough’s backyard and tripped up the steps to the kitchen door. As soon as she pushed it open, Brute, the tiny fox-colored furball, shot through the opening and down the stairs.
As he rounded the corner of the trailer, Immy got a sinking feeling. Had she latched the gate? She ran after little Brute. When she reached the side of the house, she saw the gate was ajar and the puppy had vanished.
As she stared down the road, a familiar pickup pulled up. The twins jumped out and brushed past her, clomping up the steps to the back door. A minute later, she heard the eruption.
“Where are you, dammit?”
“He’s gone. Brute’s not here.”
Immy thought fast. She sure didn’t want to get blamed by those two for losing their dog. The twins ran outside and looked around the backyard. The pair of cocker spaniels followed them out and stepped sedately down into the yard to squat near the fence at the rear of the small lot.
“Excuse me, I have a job to do.” Immy went inside to fetch the scooper and plastic bag.
“Hey, our damn dog’s done run away. Can you help us find him?”
That was it! She wouldn’t be the one who had lost the dog, she’d be the one who found him. She stuck some Bitey-Bonez into the pocket of her jeans and went outside.
“Sure, I can help.”
“He’s just gone. He’s nowhere.”
“The Case of the Missing Puppy,” she said.
“Huh?”
“Like Nancy Drew. I’ll solve the case for you.” She went out the gate, making sure to latch it behind her so Sweetums and Tweetums didn’t run out, too. The twins hadn’t noticed the gate wasn’t latched before she went through it.
The puppy was nowhere to be seen. She looked at the front yard and up and down the road. At least Brute hadn’t been run over. Yet. Then she had an idea. She ran back around the trailer, almost colliding with the bearded twin coming through the gate.
“Hey, be sure and latch it.” Immy said.
“Yeah,” his brother said, coming behind him. “We’ll catch hell if Mama’s precious prissy dogs get lost.”
Frowning in concentration, Immy asked, “Where did you get your dog?”
“We got him from over on Cherry Street,” the clean-shaved one said. “From Jake. You know, that stone house with the three pickups in front.”
She knew the house. The three pickups were a permanent fixture, ha
ving been sitting in the exact same spots since she was born.
“Sit tight,” she said, and ran toward Cherry Street as fast as she could. She covered the first two blocks at a quick clip, then slowed down and started looking. In the next block, she spotted movement in the ditch beside the culvert. The tiny red puppy almost blended in with the tall dry grass, but not quite.
“Hey, little Brute,” she called, using a soft tone so as not to scare him. “I have a treat for you.” She tossed a Bitey-Bonez onto the road and it landed halfway between them. Brute darted up out of the ditch and snatched it. After crunching it to bits and licking the bits off the road, he looked up at her, his tail going a hundred miles an hour.
“Yep, I got more.” She dropped one at her feet and he ran over to snatch it. She let him finish, then picked him up and gave him another to munch on the trip home.
“I solved the case,” she said, going in the back door and handing the puppy to the bearded twin.
“What you talkin’ about? What case?”
“I told you.” Golly, these guys were stupid. “The Case of the Missing Puppy. Don’t you remember?”
The unbearded brother scratched his armpit. “Yeah, you said somethin’ ‘bout that. But anyways, you found the dog.”
“Thanks,” said the other one. Guess they have some of manners, she thought. Not much, but some.
He switched the puppy to one arm and reached into his overall pocket with other hand. Dang if he didn’t hand her a ten dollar bill.
She bought the biggest tub of popcorn at the movie and asked for extra butter.
Scandalous Silence
By Whit Howland
Huey Dusk is a tough clown modeled after Mickey Spillane’s Mike Hammer. He was created by accident and was meant to be a piece of Flash Fiction but grew into a novelette and subsequent stories.
What also grew was the notion of clowns—who and what they are. In the world Whit creates, clowns and mimes are not people who put on makeup and entertain, they are a species. Mimes really can’t speak and clowns bleed makeup instead of blood. This world is a very dark and absurd place. The clowns were the hounds of Hell. Later stories show the humanity, heroism, and hearts of gold the clowns possess, especially when it comes to protecting children.
Sweat traced a line down Huey Dusk’s white skin. A gnat buzzed in his ear, and yet another bug crawled across the flesh of his big, bulbous clown nose and made it twitch. Huey had to bear it. On the blackest of moonless nights, he’d caught another case.
A domestic. A real tangle of rubber bands: double-crosses, switchbacks, and some foul things said about people’s grandparents. All this ruckus found the clown peering into a grimy window at some sordid business involving Jonathan Bartholomew and a bottle-blonde floozy with bloated cheeks like a rabid chipmunk. Dusk could hear her gum cracking through the glass and it made his eardrums throb.
He’d been tailing the mark and this broad. Popping her chew was the least of her offenses that chapped his checkered boxers. He’d be glad to dump this caper, collect the scratch and get back to the business of living the low life: Monkey Rum, guitar riffs, Parcheesi and clownettes on the side.
The couple started to get busy and Dusk aimed his camera, putting the prey in his crosshairs. When Jon went in for a cop, the clown captured the affair on Kodachrome. Unfortunately, the blue flash caught Bartholomew’s attention and he turned toward the window. Huey smiled, shrugged and gave the sad sack a little wave. Then the joker melted into the darkness.
Thinking he was in the clear, Huey slowed to catch his breath. Bartholomew, in a paroxysm of rage, charged him from behind. How’d the bum get his pants on so fast? The funster pivoted and floored the slob with an uppercut to the jaw. Before the man could recover, Dusk landed on him like a bumblebee, pulled a snubnose and jammed it behind his ear.
“Move one more muscle, Jonny Boy, and you’ll get a dirt nap, courtesy of yours truly!” the clown snarled.
Bartholomew grunted and glowered at the green-haired gumshoe. Huey pressed harder with the pistol. “And I’ll seal it with a lead kiss.”
Dusk’s remark softened his target and his body went slack. Huey took the pressure off the man’s face. It was time to give the poor wretch some reprieve.
“Look, I don’t want to create any family friction, so I’ll cut you a break. You pay two bones a week and I’ll keep a lid on the snaps of you and the skirt. Your little gratuity and the rest of the fee I’ll collect from Mrs. Bartholomew will buy me a year’s supply of Bubble Gum Whiskey.”
Jon groaned. Dusk cocked the gun and reapplied pressure. “Come on now, work with me. You play this right, and you and the missus get to keep on living in wedded bliss.”
The clown arched an eyebrow at the adulterer. Jon acknowledged the jester with a resigned nod.
Huey reached down and straightened the man’s collar and cuffed him on the jaw. “That’s more like it. An understanding is always a good thing, wouldn’t you agree?”
Bartholomew grumbled. Dusk chuckled and stepped off.
*
To clear his mind, Huey walked through a maze of dark alleys. The good people of the city of Kermisberg wouldn’t dare travel these mean streets—at least not without an armed escort. But the jester was immune to things that howled and moaned and made a man’s skin tingle.
Tonight was unusually gloomy and silent. The funster hated that. Even more, he despised the fact he couldn’t see the moon or the stars. Stars guided him and gave him something to shoot for. And the moon served up that beery courage his kind needed to sift through this cruel candy-flaked world.
Tired of crunching glass, he made his way toward the filthy neon of Silent Jack’s. A good belt of spirits or a brawl might just be the medicine he was craving. He walked no farther when he heard the scrape of sulfur and saw a cigarette’s glow. Blue smoke followed and floated upward. The weak flame revealed the imposing clown figure of Lou Blatz, KPD homicide detective, and giant bunion on Dusk’s big toe.
“Up to no good as always, eh, Dusk?”
“And yourself?” Huey asked.
“I’m on a stakeout, rubberhead, and beyond that you should mind your own bug wax!”
Huey stifled a laugh. “I guess that makes two of us.”
Lou chuckled and sighed. “And you know, what I don’t know about your business won’t hurt me either…besides kid, I need to ask you a favor.”
Huey frowned at being called kid, but at the same time was curious at what this corrupt clown cop wanted. “Well, lay it on me, flatfoot.”
Lou took another tug on his cigarette. Something must’ve been gnawing at the other ribald for him to take up smoking again.
“In the old days, I would have slapped a hurt on you for such a remark, but tonight I’m too tired, so here it is. Nicky Bartholomew’s mother called me personally and wondered if I had seen the little rugrat. You know I don’t like kids, but she seemed out of sorts over it, so I took pity on the woman and said I’d keep my ears peeled for the squirt. When I finished with the broad, I got to asking myself, doesn’t Nicky pal around with Dusk on occasion?”
“Very observant of you,” Huey replied.
Lou frowned as if he were experiencing some unbearable pain. “Well, you do, don’t you?”
“I see him around from time to time. On the street they call him Nicky Beat on account of his good rhythm.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t give any cred to street names, and I especially don’t like yours. Anyways, be on the lookout for the tyke. If you see him, drag him back to his mom’s apron strings, will ya, kid?”
Dusk frowned again, but nodded in agreement. He wasn’t doing this so much for Lou as he was for Nicky. There was something about the little hipster that he liked, felt tethered to, and he did his best to point him toward the sunnier side of life. But lately, his efforts ended up falling flat on their dirty faces.
“Okay, Blatz, I’ll keep an eye out.”
“You do that, Dusk!”
Huey studied
Lou as he leaned against the dumpster. “So, where’s Brody?”
“He took the night off to help his mom scrub the kitchen floor,” Lou replied, as his cigarette glowed and petered out, making him invisible.
*
Silent Jack’s, a former mime saloon, stood empty, and for once lived up to its name. During peak hours, the joint was a real bucket of blood. Tonight, though, it remained quiet as a crypt but that didn’t mean there wasn’t tension. The air felt heavy with tight-lipped mayhem. Maybe it was the ghosts of past brawls where two zipper lips would square off, connected by a rope clinched in their teeth, swiping and jabbing at each other with non-existent pig stickers. In those days, chaos ruled this dive. Huey could see them mime their war cries, and the noise inside his head gave no shelter from his own freak show. So, instead of trying to drown out his own pain with a slug of candy rot gut, he decided to focus on the kid.
At the end of the bar, Patsy Doodle, the bartender, sat thumbing through a newspaper. The clown sports section? Or, maybe an exposé on a corrupt city official.
Doodle, a tired old harlequin, was brother to Sunny Doodle, the blues clown. Although a carbon copy of the funny musician, he lacked his ear for ragtime as well as his nose for snorting cereal. But Patsy got by, did his best to run a square house, and poured fire water to take the edge off all those who sauntered into his watering hole.
“Hey, Doodle.”
The keep shot Dusk a world-weary gaze. “What’s on your mind, clown?”
“You seen little Nicky Beat?”
“Well, he bops with O’Beakish from time to time,” Doodle said shaking his head.
“Yeah, I know Feathers has taken him under his wing. As hard as I try, I can’t seem to teach the kid that he needs to hang around a better class of bird.”
Doodle sighed and neatly folded his paper. “Well, you know kids these days.”
Dusk did know kids, mainly Nicky, and he could sense the lad was mixed up in some foul business. Then it dawned on him: Blatz must be “chummy” with Nicky’s mom. That’s the only cause for the clown cop’s interest in the kid. What a crazy box this life is. And we’re all running around inside it like rats!
The Untreed Detectives Page 10
