by Gary K. Wolf
She careened wildly around her house as air escaped.
Here Roger had inserted an actual picture of Michelle’s bungalow with numerous bumps on the outside wall.
The police officially labeled Michelle’s death a suicide. They said she died by swallowing an overdose of iron in the form of nails.
Roger had included another picture showing a chalk outline of the deceased. The outline went across the floor, over a table, over a sofa and across two chairs.
She was cremated before the coroner could conduct an autopsy.
Roger’s last picture showed a huge, smoky rubber fire.
Her obit in The Toontown Telltale called her “a woman respected for always traveling the straight and narrow road.”
She got a memorial flyover from the Goodyear Blimp.
Boss T’s name never entered into it.
Ever since then, Willy Prosciutto has called the shots for Boss Tweedledeedledum.
“Is this really true?” I asked the rabbit. “Or did you make everything up?
Roger gave me a sly rabitty grin. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. I’ll leave you to separate fact from fiction.”
“If this is a true story, if you didn’t conjure up the facts so you could sell more books…”
“I only made the one,” Roger reminded me. “You bought that one.”
“Okay. Say the story’s true. That makes Willie Prosciutto exactly the kind of pig who would send death threats to Cooper.”
“Hummm,” said Roger’s balloon.
“Hummm,” said Sands.
“Why?” said Cooper.
“I don’t know. Not yet.”
We hopped back on the Trolley and rode to our second stop, Toonie Island, Toontown’s amusement park, another of Hi! Toon’s shooting locales.
Toonie Island was located on a pier stretching way out into Bubbly Bay.
The park was closed. The lights were off, the rides silent, the games of skill booths shuttered and locked.
A Toon clown—a real clown, not a tourist outfitted for yucks by the gorilla at the Customs House—sat on a bench inside the park’s entrance.
His outfit was only a color or two short of the paint sample wall in a hardware store. He had on baggy purple pants held up with wide pink suspenders. His shirt was bright green, his tie sky blue, his jacket orange. He wore a bright yellow curly wig. His nose was a red bulb, the kind that honked when squeezed.
The clown was crying. His tears cut tracks across his grease-painted cheeks.
“That’s Clabber Clown. He owns Toonie Island.” Roger sat down beside the crying clown. “What’s the matter, Clabber?” Roger patted the clown’s back.
“Too horrible to talk about,” said Clabber. As befitted a clown, he spoke in rainbow colored word balloons that made even his dire pronouncements look cheerful.
“Can’t be that bad,” said Roger. “This is Toontown. Nothing bad happens in Toontown.”
“A first time for everything,” said the clown.
Sands was still not filming. I would have thought a little sad clown drama would be exactly the kind of oddball twist he wanted for his documentary.
The clown looked at me, at Sands, and then at Cooper.
“You’re Gary Cooper,” said the clown, momentarily forgetting his distress.
“Right,” said Cooper.
The clown stood up. “Clabber Clown. Pleased to meet you.”
Clabber extended his huge white-gloved hand.
Cooper reached out.
“Don’t!” I grabbed the clown’s hand. I was being paid to bodyguard Cooper. That included protecting him from joy buzzers. I’d never seen a Toontown clown shake hands without one.
Until now.
I checked. The clown’s hand was empty.
“Okay, go ahead, “ I said.
Cooper and the clown shook.
“What happened?” asked Roger.
“Somebody sabotaged one of my rides,” said the clown. “They sped up the Tilt-a-Whirl. Cars came loose and went flying out in every direction.”
“How many riders got hurt?” I asked.
“None,” said Clabber. “This was the shake-out run we do every day before the park opens. No riders aboard. This was a warning. Next time will be something more deadly. Maybe a barrel of DIP in the water slide ride. That would be a disaster.”
“You know who’s making this trouble for you?” I asked.
“I’ve got my suspicions.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“I think Willy Prosciutto.”
The big pig again. “What’d you do to Prosciutto?”
Before Clabber could answer, Prosciutto’s bully boy Louie Louie scuttled in and joined our little confab.
“How’s about you three take a hike?” he said.
In addition to being stupid, mean, and ugly, the louse couldn’t count. There were four of us, not three. Me, Cooper, the rabbit and Sands.
Except there weren’t. When I looked around, Roger was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Sands’s camera. Roger had skedaddled and had taken the camera with him.
“Me and the clown has got business to discuss. Private business.”
I wasn’t eager to take on the louse again, not over a clown show.
The three of us left the park.
“Roger took my camera,” said Sands, his face bright red. “The rabbit took my camera. What am I supposed to do now? How can I film my documentary with no camera?”
I didn’t point out that Sands hadn’t been filming much of what we were doing today anyway. “Maybe Roger was worried that the louse would bust the thing. Let’s go back to the hotel. He’s probably there, and your camera along with him.”
On the way, we passed over a big bridge.
I asked the trolley man if he would stop for a minute. I told him I wanted to look over the railing, check out the view.
This being Toontown, where tourists ruled supreme, he obliged.
I took Mutt out from under my coat. I dangled him over the railing. Open my hands, and I would be rid of him forever. Mutt whimpered and looked at me with his wide puppy dog eyes.
I got back on the trolley.
Mutt curled up in my lap and went to sleep.
We got to our hotel, the Toontown Tiltin’ Hiltin. We checked Roger’s room. He wasn’t there.
The three of us gathered in Cooper’s room, where we finally got around to cracking open a bottle of Cooper’s good stuff.
I always use the first bottle to take the edge off my day, then a quick follow up second bottle to take the edge off the first.
“Waddya think that stuff at the amusement park was all about?” I asked my companions as Cooper’s booze threw the gears on my deductive engine into idle.
“Hard telling,” said Cooper.
“Beats me,” said Sands.
Time for bottle two.
Roger came bursting into the room. “We got big trouble at Toonie Island!” He held up Sands’s camera. “I’ve got the whole scary episode on film. I stopped off at the studio on the way over. The lab developed what I shot. Take a look and you’ll see for yourself. “
“We’ll have to wait,” said Sands. “Ethyl hasn’t dropped off my projector.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Roger. “I’ll make do.”
Roger bent his ears sideways. He put the full spool of film on one ear, an empty spool on the other. He spun the empty spool. The empty spool took up the film from the full spool. The film played out between his ears.
Roger pulled out a flashlight. He turned the flashlight on and held the beam behind the rolling film. A moving picture projected on the wall.
The film wasn’t in great focus.
&nbs
p; What looked to be a parade of floating Toon ducks passed by in front of the lens.
“When I saw the louse coming,” said Roger, “I ducked out and hid in the shooting gallery.” Indeed. Sands’s camera had a bullet hole in the side.
On screen, Louie Louie grabbed Clabber by his jacket collar. “Mister Prosciutto wants your park, and you’re gonna sell to him,” said Louie Louie’s balloon.
“I’m not selling my park, not to Prosciutto, not to anybody.” Clabber motioned to one of his side show strong men. “Throw this louse out.”
Louie Louie shook his four fists at Clabber. “You’re gonna be one sorry clown!”
The film ended.
“We gotta help my pal Clabber,” said Roger. “He’s a real good guy, and he’s in big trouble.”
“Ain’t you forgetting something?” I said. “We’re in big trouble ourselves. Somebody’s out to harm Cooper. He’s our first priority.”
“What do you think, Mister Cooper?” asked the rabbit.
“Help Clabber,” said Cooper.
“You heard him,” said Roger to me.
“You’re the boss of this operation,” I said to Sands. “You’re paying the bills.”
Sands shook his head. “Forget the clown. He’s none of our business. I’ve got my investors to worry about. They’re not going to be happy if I tell them the movie’s behind schedule because I got involved with some clown.”
Cooper stared at Sands. “Help Clabber.”
“Gee, thanks, Mister Cooper,” said Roger. “You’re one swell guy.”
Cooper pointed at me. “Help Clabber.”
I shrugged. “Okay, but you two are getting us involved in one heck of a mess.”
“Don’t care,” said Cooper.
“Well I care,” said Sands. “Valiant, I’m not paying you to protect clowns from pigs. I’m paying you to protect Cooper from a killer. If you’re not going to do that, then give me back my money, and we’ll say goodbye.”
“Sorry, Barney. I can’t. I already spent what you paid me.”
“Then you’re stuck.”
Cooper reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a roll of simoleons.
He peeled off a few bills, big denominations. I needed a pencil, paper, and a refresher in arithmetic to be sure, but by eyeball estimate, what he had in his hand equaled what I got from Sands.
Cooper handed me the money.
I handed the money to Sands. “We’re square.”
Cooper had just bought up my contract. From now on, I was working for him.
“Help Clabber,” Cooper told me.
“Whatever you say,” I responded. “You’re the boss.”
We went back to the park. At least three of us did. Sands stayed behind. Even though I thought this would make a fascinating subplot to Sands’s documentary, Sands wanted no part of the clown’s troubles.
Clabber and his crew of roustabouts were putting the Tilt-a-Whirl back together.
Clabber took a break when he saw us. “Welcome back, boys. Stick around. We’ll be open for business in a couple of hours. First ride’s on me.”
“We didn’t come here for fun,” said Roger. “We know about your troubles with Willy Prosciutto. We came here to help you.”
“No need. I can handle that blow hard myself.”
“I waved an arm at the wreckage around us. “You didn’t do so good last time.”
“My pal Eddie, he’s a private eye,” said Roger. “The best in the business.”
Cooper nodded agreement.
Who was I to argue with Hollywood’s biggest star?
“Absolutely. I’ll protect you.”
Clabber thought for a moment. “All right. Let’s make a formal agreement. Here’s a retainer.” He handed me fifty simoleons. “Get Prosciutto off my back, and there’s another fifty for you.”
He reached into his costume. He pulled out a seltzer bottle, a stuffed dachshund, and a multi- colored word balloon origami-folded into the shape of an octahedron. He handed me the balloon.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“My insurance policy. What’s keeping me alive. An incriminating tidbit on our friend Willy Prosciutto. Enough to net him a long stretch in the big house. You hang on to this balloon. If something happens to me, you use what’s in there to set things right.”
“Why don’t you give this information to the police?” I said. “Then your troubles are over.”
“The police? Are you kidding? They’re as dirty as Prosciutto. They’re all on his payroll. I have to handle this privately. Without the police getting involved. You know how. You private detectives do this kind of thing all the time.”
For once, a Toon got something right. I did do this kind of thing all the time.
I put the balloon in my pocket.
Chapter Four
By the next day, Sands had calmed down. His anger dissipated pretty quickly once he realized the cost of protecting Cooper was no longer coming out of his pocket. Cooper was paying his own freight.
Miss Ethyl spent an hour patching up the bullet hole Roger’s shooting gallery escapade had put into Sands’s camera. She spent another hour painting the camera black.
“You know, Mister Sands,” she said as she worked, “you’re falling further and further behind in our schedule. I must urge you to step up the pace a bit.”
“Right,” said Sands. “Gotta keep moving and doing. I don’t want my investors pulling out. That would be a disaster.”
Miss Ethyl gave Sands his camera. “There. All done.”
“Okay,” said Sands to me, Cooper, and the rabbit. “Let’s put this clown thing on the back burner and get back to scouting locations.”.
“Welcome to the Toontown Post Office,” said Sands. “Where the loveable galoot in our movie gets the letter that tells him his one true love has left him for another. He breaks down crying right here on the steps. He walks around the corner where he meets the girl who helps him put his life back together. Until she leaves him for the walrus.”
Definitely not my kind of movie.
“Let’s go in,” said Sands, motioning his camera toward the door. “I wanna grab a few interior shots.”
“We can’t,” said Roger. “It’s closed.”
I checked the hours of operation. “Says here open from nine to five. It’s only eleven a.m.”
“Read what it says underneath,” said Roger. “Except holidays.”
“So?”
Roger hopped up into the air, spun around, and landed in a Ta-Da posture, one knee down, one up, hands spread open at shoulder level. “Every day’s a holiday in Toontown.”
I should have guessed.
We strolled across town square to Toontown High, a low slung building situated in Goof Off Gulch.
“We can check out the school cafeteria,” said Roger. “That’s where we’ll film the big food fight scene.”
“Great,” said Sands. “I definitely wanna see that.”
We walked in the front door.
Yearbook pictures lined the halls.
“Let’s play guess who,” said Roger.
He pointed to a picture. A flat-chested brunette with her hair in braids, snaggly teeth, and soda-bottle-bottom glasses.
“I give up.”
I read the inscription underneath. She was none other than Roger’s hot mama wife Jessica.
“Good thing I married her before she blossomed,” said Roger. “She wouldn’t give me a second glance today.”
Some ugly ducklings did grow up to be swans. Some stayed ugly forever. Case in point, the next photo in line, Roger himself. He looked exactly the same as he did today. Back then he wore his orange hair in a flat top. He had a metal brace on his single bucked tooth. P
imples of the Toon variety, red and green striped, covered his face. Roger wore a varsity letter jacket. Hard to believe this klutzy rabbit ever played any sport well enough to letter I leaned closer. I wanted to know what sport he’d lettered in.
Pie Throwing.
Obviously. The perfect letter sport in Toontown.
I spotted another photo of somebody I knew—Baby Herman. He appeared in a group photo with the Toontown high school basketball team, The Fighting FesToons. Their team logo was a garland of stinkweed flowers. The Toontown High basketball team didn’t go in much for height. Baby Herman was the tallest player. Not hard when the other starting five were a mouse, a cat, a termite, and an ant.
The photo next to Baby’s, a black bordered shot, paid tribute to one of Baby’s b-ball teammates, a mite. The little fellah was crushed to death when the basketball landed on him during a pick and roll.
Near the end of the picture gallery I spied Louie Louie Louse. His high school yearbook photo was a mug shot complete with number underneath.
Sands tapped the picture. “What’s the story with the double first name? Louie Louie. How come not just plain Louie?”
Obviously, Sands hadn’t spent a lot of time with Toons. Even I knew the answer to that one. I tossed the rabbit a bone and let him take it.
“Toons give their kiddies double names because it’s twice as funny! Mary Mary of quite contrary fame is the other example who springs to mind.”
Roger pointed down the hallway. “Here’s somebody you should meet, Mister Sands. Toontown’s most famous movie director.” A cocky teenaged Toon fox sauntered toward us. The kid was all swagger and strut. The other Toon students bowed down to him reverentially as he passed by them in the hallway.
“That’s Twentieth Century Fox,” said Roger. “He’s known in Toontown as Wunderfox. Only fifteen years old and already he’s directed the five top grossing cartoons of all time.”
