by Gary K. Wolf
“That is impressive,” said Sands. He stuck his camera in Wunderfox’s face. “Tell me, kid: to what do you attribute your success?”
Wunderfox answered using a balloon of a type I’d never seen before, an elongated rectangle resembling a comic book. His main balloon contained multiple pictures of Wunderfox with little word balloons coming out of his mouth. Like a mirror within a mirror. I had to hand it to him. This kid knew how to tell a story.
“I know my audience,” said the first little word balloon Wunderfox.
“I give ’em plenty of rock ’em sock ’em action, minimal dialogue, and absolutely no kissy-face mushy-poo,” said the next little Wunderfox.
Wunderfox put up another balloon. This one showed him with an older fox.
“I come from a proud heritage of movie folk,” read the caption underneath.
A series of word balloons gave us his family history. “This is my grandfather, Nineteenth Century Fox. The first Toon to be squashed flat on screen by a steamroller.”
Another balloon popped up. “This is my father, Turn Of The Century Fox. A true comic genius. He, invented the anvil drop, the dynamite swallow, and the brick wall smash.”
“Amazing,” said Sands. He was so impressed by the kid that he had lowered his camera. The lens pointed downward, straight at the floor. The camera was still running. Sands was getting a close up shot of asbestos tile.
“My goal,” said Twentieth Century, “is to someday start my own movie studio. I’m going to name it after myself.”
“What’s the subject of your next cartoon?” Sands asked him.
“Honest Abe Lincoln,” Twentieth responded.
“That’s a really tough subject,” said Roger. “Especially for a youngster like you.”
“I know everything about him,” said Wunderfox. “Wanna bet me fifty simoleons that I can recite Lincoln’s Gettysburg address start to finish?”
“You got a bet,” said Roger.
The kid nodded confidently. “1420 Oak Street.”
Roger stared at the kid. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, extracted fifty simoleons and handed it over. He sent up a small balloon visible only to me. “The kid is smarter than I thought.”
“That’s Gary Cooper!” said one of the Toon students.
A gaggle of young Toons clustered around Coop, begging for his autograph. Patiently, Coop fulfilled every request.
Sands cursed. He had run out of film. He had ten minutes of asbestos footage, and nothing of Cooper making nice with young Toons.
As we waited for Cooper to finish up with the students, a teacher ran by, waving a broom and chasing after a little swine. The little porker wore denim jeans, a stained T-shirt, red poplin jacket, and a beanie. He resembled a miniature Willy Prosciutto.
The little pig hightailed it out the front door.
The teacher came back. She was a middle aged humanoid Toon. She wore a simple skirt with a matching sweater over a plain white blouse. Her hair was in a French braid.
Roger introduced us. “Guys, meet Miss Prim. She was my teacher when I was here. I had her for geometry, geography, numerology, and hystericology.”
“As I recall, young man, you still own me your final term paper,” Miss Prim said sternly.
Roger pointed to Mutt who was standing at my heel. “My friend Eddie’s dog ate my homework.”
“What was going on there,” I asked her. “With the porker?”
“That vile swine? I caught him selling Stareoids to students.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“An insidious drug. It causes a Toon’s eyes to bug and pop. We have a no-tolerance policy here at Toontown High. Despite that, dealers still sneak in to peddle their evil wares.”
“Any idea who’s behind it?” I asked.
“We all know. That no-good criminal Willy Prosciutto. He’s got his cloven hoof prints on every illegal activity in Toontown.” She wrung her hands together. “This town would be much better off without the likes of Willy Prosciutto and his goons. I wish some brave soul would do something about it.”
Roger elbowed me and put up a balloon. It read, “Hint, hint.”
We left the high school.
“We gotta have lunch there,” said Roger. He pointed across the street to the Toontown Diner on the corner of Meal Square. “Best lunch spot in Toontown.”
We walked over. A word balloon pasted in the window proclaimed that the Diner was the home of the World’s Best Toonafish Sandwich. A smaller word balloon underneath said that today’s special was apple Toonovers, hot from the oven.
“I spent every school day noon hour and recess sitting in a back booth, sipping seltzer and reading the magazines off the rack,” rhapsodized Roger.
As we stood outside the Diner, a newspaper delivery truck drove by. A guy on the back threw off a bundle of Toontown Telltales. The bundle landed on Roger and squashed him flat.
“Great, great,” said Sands, who had reloaded his camera and was back to shooting. “Exactly what I need. More action.”
Roger pulled himself out from under the bundle.
I lifted the twine holding the papers together, pulled a Telltale off the bundled stack, and read the headline. “Clabber Clown Missing.” According to the story, nobody had seen the clown since he left the park yesterday.
I showed the paper to the others.
“Oh, Eddie. That’s awful,” said Roger.
“Find him,” said Cooper.
“Hold on here a minute,” said Sands. “We got no indication the clown met with foul play. Maybe he left on vacation.”
“Sure,” I said. “He decided on the spur of the moment to take off for Bora Bora.”
“Could happen,” said Roger. “I been there. When we filmed Bora Bora Baby. It’s a real nice place.”
“Find him,” Cooper repeated.
Sands gave up. “Okay, how’s this? We’ve got a few more locations to scout today. Let’s finish those. Then we’ll take a break. Eddie, you and the rabbit, and even Coop if he wants to, can try and find the clown. Agreed?”
“You betcha,” said Roger.
“Yup,” said Cooper.
An ominous feeling gnawed at my gut. There was something wrong here. Something I couldn’t finger.
I should have passed on this case. I should never have come to Toontown. I should never have taken that correspondence course on Detecting Made Simple. I should have gone to plumbing school like ma wanted me to. Or become a vaudeville hoofer like dad. Good steady work, those jobs. Nobody ever disappears on you. Nobody gets killed. Best of all, you never, ever deal with Toons.
“Fine. We’ll do it your way.”
Chapter Five
I refused to ride in any vehicle that talked back to me. That meant no Toon cabs or cars.
I told Sands I wasn’t climbing on the back of Cooper’s bogus motorcycle, either.
For once, Sands indulged me. He sent Miss Ethyl back to Hollywood. She returned with his Henry J.
Miss Ethyl drove. Cooper and Sands sat in the back seat. Me and Roger flipped for shotgun. No contest. I flipped Roger halfway across the parking lot.
We drove out to Car Toon Terrace, the last exit off The Toonpike.
I knew without having to be told that Toon cars lived here. All the houses were garages. Every store was a drive-in. The Gas Station had pumps labeled black beans, navy beans, pinto beans, baked beans, and dried figs. Every bean came in two versions, regular and hi-test. The Gas Station also included a Toon-up shop.
At the Rec Center, cars did laps in a big Motor Pool.
Roger leaned across the seat. “This is where our heroes first meet up. I’m a struggling cabbie. I’ve been thrown out of my warren. I’m living with my cab, whose name is Calloway. Played by
my pal Benny. Mister Cooper comes here to check out the getaway car that kidnapped the bank president’s daughter.”
His word balloons piled up on the dashboard, growing so high they threatened to block Miss Ethyl’s view of the road.
I opened my window. The wind grabbed the balloons and sucked them out. They plopped up against the windshield of the car behind us. The driver had to pull over and peel them off.
“Sounds fascinating.”
“I’m not nearly doing it justice,” said Roger. “The story’s real dramatic. I suspect there’s gonna be a statuette or two coming our way at next year’s Toonie Awards.”
We stopped at an auto dealership. Me, Cooper, Sands, and the rabbit got out. Miss Ethyl waited in the car.
“What can I do you for?” said a roly poly humanoid Toon. He wore a plaid coat, baggy purple pants, and a yellow and orange striped shirt. He sported giant sunglasses, as big around as two snow saucers. He topped off his ensemble with a big gold crown worn at a rakish sideways angle.
A huge sign over the dealership office showed this little guy sitting on a throne made out of a car’s front seat. The caption identified him as Deals Wheels, King of Used Cars.
“You’re one racy little rabbit,” said Deals, throwing an arm around Roger’s shoulder. Deals’ word balloons came out of him so fast you had to be a speed reader to keep up. “How about a hot rod?”
Deals picked up Roger by the scruff of his neck and carried him over to a’32 Ford Roadster. The car had no top and no hood. The original four banger engine had been replaced by a powerful V-8. Painted-on flames adorned each front wheel well.
Deals dropped Roger into the front seat.
Roger sat behind the wheel. He turned it left, right, left, right again all the while producing big “bruuuum, bruuuum” engine noise balloons. “I don’t drive much anymore,” he said. “Not since I lost my license.”
“What was your violation?” I asked.
“What are you suggesting? I never violated anybody in my life. Well maybe that one time when me and Jessica were playing patty cake in the dark and I kind of lost track of what goes where.”
“Your traffic violation. You said you lost your license.”
“Yeah. I lost it someplace in my house. I looked everywhere. Under the sofa cushions, in the refrigerator, under the rugs. I can’t find it anyplace.”
Deals gave Cooper a low, respectful bow. “For you, I got a swell used limousine I took on trade. A converted hearse. Comes with curtains on the windows and a big open back seat where you can throw down a mattress for those casting calls you hot shot stars are always giving the gorgeous young starlets.”
“Nope,” said Cooper. I didn’t know if he was turning down the former hearse or denying he bopped starlets.
“For you, sir,” said Deals to me, “might I suggest a family sedan?” He pointed at a basic four door sedan a nine-to-fiver would drive.
I had to get back to the gym if that was the image I was projecting nowadays.
Mutt hopped through the sedan’s open window. He curled up in the front seat.
“See there? Your dog approves,” said Deals. “Take the car out for a spin.”
Sands stuck out his hand. “I’m Barney Sands. We’re here checking out locations for my new movie. I discussed that with you a while back.”
“Sure, sure. I remember. Come on in the office with me. We can iron out the details. Sign the contract. Dot the i’s, cross the t’s.” In the interest of speeding up production, his word balloon did neither, leaving every i undotted and every t uncrossed.
Wheels walked us into his office, a room only slightly larger than the desk pushed up against one wall.
Deals produced a word balloon contract with lettering so small Sands would need a microscope to read the words. “No need to read this,” said Deals. “Trust me. It’s completely honest and legit.” He handed Sands a pen.
One of Deals’s two phones produced a “Riiiiing” balloon. Wheels picked up the phone. “Yeah, Deals Wheels.”
As Deals spoke, the phone grabbed his balloons, coated them with a thin layer of Vaseline, and stuffed them into its mouthpiece. They traveled from chord to phone line like greased bocce balls through a rubber hose.
Deals’s second phone rang.
He talked into both phones at once.
His two phones had trouble keeping his conversations straight. A few times the two phones got into tugging matches over which balloon went where.
Speech was so much easier using words, but try convincing a Toon.
I looked out Deals’s office window.
Passing cars stopped by. They grabbed up Deals’s used sales pitch balloons. They used the hot air content of his words to inflate their tires.
Deals squeezed his fists around his two phones to keep them from grabbing his next balloons. “Gimme a minute, sports. I got stuff cooking. Big time.” He winked. “I’m only half a block away from Easy Street.”
Roger checked the map in his Gossipy Guide. “No, you’re not,” he told Deals. “You’re here, see. Easy Street’s waaaaaay over there.”
Roger reached into his pants and pulled out a yardstick. He measured the distance. “Six and five eighths inches at one inch equals four thousand five hundred and twenty two feet. That’s four, divide by three, carry two.” Roger put down his pencil and paper. “Quite a ways.”
Wheels put his finger to his temple and spun his digit in a circle.
I nodded.
“There’s a junkyard out back that Deals uses as a source of spare parts,” said Roger. “Called Car Toon Terrace. We should take a look. A famous cartoon superhero lives there.”
“Who?” asked Sands.
“Catman,” said Roger in a balloon that glowed Kryptonite green.
“I love Catman,” said Sands. “I read his comics when I was a kid. I’d love to meet him.”
We walked through the junkyard.
Most of the cars here had died from exploded engine blocks. That’s what happens to a Toon car that gets overly revved up on unadulterated mirth.
I also saw quite a few cars that had backfired themselves to death.
The saddest cars where the old ones who were still hanging on, limping along on a single tire, banging away on one cylinder.
They panhandled us as we walked past.
“How about a quarter for a pint of high test?” said a sad old race car.
“War vet,” said a Jeep, extending his empty machine gun mounting for a handout.
Catman was stretched out on a folding lawn chair, catching some sun.
He wore the traditional garb sported by flamboyant humanoid Toon crime fighters. Ankle to neck calico colored tights, a baggy blouse and pantaloons, big boots of the seven league variety, a plumed helmet, a black mask that looked like two holes punched in one of Dagwood Bumstead’s bow ties, and gloves invented by welders who put together battleships for a living.
I remembered him being trim, lithe, athletic. Nowadays, Catman carried too much weight to bound over tall buildings. The best he could do would be a low pass over a one bedroom bungalow.
He stood up when he saw us, standing so straight he put orthopedic suspenders to shame.
“Roger,” he said, “good to see you again. What are you doing in the neighborhood?”
“We’re here making a movie,” said Roger. “This is Gary Cooper, Eddie Valiant, and Barney Sands.”
“A movie you say? Got a part for me? I’m not looking for a lead role or anything like that. Just a bit part. So I can validate my guild card. Get my health insurance reinstated.”
“I’m a big fan,” said Sands. “I don’t see why we couldn’t arrange something.”
“Great, great. Come on in to my place. We can talk terms.”
Catman lived in an old school bus.
His little kitchenette included a propane stove and a field sink that cleaned dishes using sand instead of water.
Mutt made a beeline for Catman’s bathroom, a wash tub full of kitty litter. I grabbed the pup just before he hopped in for a smelly rollover.
“You guys want a nip?” asked Catman. He pulled a pouch labeled Cat Nip out of his pocket. He opened the pouch, took a big sniff. “Some say I got a problem with the nip. I got no problem. I can quit whenever I want.” He sniffed his pouch again and lapsed into a mild trance.
Catman’s tail tapped him on the shoulder. Catman made a grab for his tail which eluded him. Catman chased his tail around in a tight circle. “Wahoo!” he said, “I’m Catman. Watch me pounce.”
Roger spoke in a balloon extra specially small so only I could read it. “Once upon a time Catman knew the dirt on everything and everybody in Toontown.”
“So?”
“Maybe he can help us with our Clabber Clown case.”
“My Clabber Clown case. Mine. Not yours. I’m the detective. You’re a rabbit. Stay out of my business.”
Roger used one ear to smack himself upside the head. “Right. What was I thinking? Silly, silly me. I’m only a stupid rabbit. I never had a good idea in my life.”
“Ask him,” said Cooper to Roger, pointing at Catman.
Roger shot me a dirty look. “I’m glad somebody realizes how helpful I can be when I put my mind to being helpful.”
Catman was lying on his back, rolling side to side, pawing the air, grinning like a demonically possessed Cheshire cat.
“Clabber Clown’s gone missing,” said Roger to Catman. “You know anything that might help us figure out why?”
Catman, opened his eyes. He motioned to the rabbit with his claw. “Closer,” he said. “I got what my vet calls Toonal vision. I can’t see as well as I used to. Say what you just said only closer.”
Toons hate repeating themselves. Roger’s prior balloon was still drifting around inside the bus. Roger grabbed his balloon out of the air.
