by Gary K. Wolf
We left the tepidarium and headed for warmer water.
Roger opened the door to the sauna.
He went inside. He came right back out. He put up a word balloon. His balloon was half filled with water and didn’t get much height. The balloon fell down on top of his head and burst open. He put up another one just like the first one, except empty of water so his statement would stay up long enough for us to read. “He’s in there,” he said, “I saw him.”
“Who you talking about?” I asked.
“Clabber Clown. He was walking through the mist. I saw him. He waved at me.”
All three of us hurried into the sauna.
We were the only ones there. The sauna was empty.
A door was just closing on the far side.
I ran to the door and went through.
I was in the ladies’ section. Stark naked.
Along with lots of naked Toons. All of the female persuasion.
None of them was Clabber Clown.
“Did a clown just run through here?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Betty Boop. “You.”
The other ladies laughed.
I went back into the men’s sauna.
“If he was in here—”
“He was, he was, I saw him,” said Roger.
“—he’s long gone.”
“I don’t understand,” said Roger. “We saw the picture. Clabber’s feet. The bang balloon. Clabber Clown is dead, murdered. He can’t still be running around Toontown. Yet he is. I know what I saw, and I saw Clabber Clown.”
“Maybe Sands was right. Maybe sometimes we see what we wanna see,” I told the rabbit.
“I saw him. I wasn’t hallucinating. He was here. I saw him. You gotta believe me.”
“I do,” said Cooper.
“What?” I said.
“Believe him,” said Cooper.
“What makes you so sure he wasn’t seeing things?”
“Saw him,” said Cooper.
“You saw the clown.”
“Yup.”
Roger broke into a huge grin. “I knew we was gonna get along, you and me,” he said to Cooper. “We both got great eyes.” He bugged his out to the size of dinner plates.
“Twenty-twenty.” Cooper pointed to his own set of peepers.
Okay. Clabber was dead. I had a photograph as proof. Except I also had two eyewitnesses who swore they saw him walking around hale and healthy.
Two eyewitnesses. A rabbit with a funny bone where his brain oughta be, and a guy who plays make believe for a living. Maybe what they saw fooled them. Maybe what they saw would have even fooled a recent graduate of my alma mater, The Back Of A Matchbook School Of Detecting and Fine Art. What they saw didn’t fool me.
Nobody, not even a clown, walks around inside a sauna wearing full clown regalia. That’s not funny. Not even in Toontown. Hot and sweaty, sure. Stinky, you bet. Bottom line, completely unbelievable.
Somebody was trying to make me believe that Clabber Clown was still alive and kicking.
I had a hunch the pig in my poke went by the name of Prosciutto. Time for me to take that little piggy to market and smoke some bacon.
Chapter Eight
We went to the Hardwear Clothing Store on Doofus Drive.
“Hardwear sells the most prestigious apparel in Toontown,” said Roger.
“Strange name,” said Cooper.
After the debacle with the Good Humor getup, Miss Ethyl had changed Sands’s disguise again. He wore a khaki-colored delivery man’s outfit. A big cardboard box he carried in front of him concealed his camera. He might get complaints for slow delivery, but at least no ice cream cone-craving caveman was gonna club him senseless over a non-existent scoop of vanilla.
“What kind of clothes do they sell?” asked Sands.
“Going by the name, probably the uncomfortable kind.” I figured girdles, baggy underwear, runny nylons, pinchy shoes, tight turtlenecks, allergenic scarves, and itchy winter hats.
I guessed wrong. The store was named after the owner, a Toon lobster, Hardwear Henri.
Tailoring and fashion design were Toontown’s traditional lobster occupations. Lobsters came built for the profession, born as they were with built in scissors and a thick shell to protect them from carping critics.
Hardwear Henri came clickety-clacking out from the back of his store.
Henri was the most jumbo lobster I had ever seen. Each of his massive claws packed a solid pound of meat.
He wore green seaweed steamed to a color that exactly matched his shell. He had woven the seaweed into a cloth, then tailored that weaving into a chic double breasted blazer that displayed his briny shape to absolutely best advantage.
I was impressed. Henri definitely had talent if he could turn dead plant life into a garment fit for a high fashion runway.
“Good day to you, sir,” said Henri to me, “and welcome to my store. Can I perhaps make a custom garment for you?” Henri looked down at Mutt who tailed behind me like a good dog should. “Perhaps a matching outfit for your poochie? I can do him a very gay collar with a hint of rhinestone. Most swell. What all the society dogs are wearing these days.”
Henri saw Cooper and the lobster fell into a deep swoon that rocked him backwards onto his meaty tail. From out of whatever orifice a lobster uses to breathe came a shrill whistling sound, identical to what you would hear if you had dropped Henri into a pot of boiling water. I’ve heard lobsters have a tough time separating pain from pleasure. I dated a girl like that once, but that’s another story.
“Mister Gary Cooper.” His balloons had the pinkish pallor of lobster bisque. “What an honor to have you in my store.”
Henri’s balloon lettering had a suave, curvy, lispish shape. The Toon balloon style you saw coming out of French poodles, French onions, and French twists.
I’d never been to Gay Paree. Those who had told me Frogs loved Toon snails with their buttery manners and garlicky smell. They detested lobsters for being as hard-shelled and tough to crack as Limeys, and as spiny and prone to bite your finger off as sour Krauts. The French put strict immigration quotas on the number of Toon lobsters who could legally enter their country. I bet Henri had never been closer to France than a swim in the ocean off the coast of Maine.
There were Frenchies down bayou way where he could have picked up his accent, although Cajun word balloons tended to resemble long-sliced slivers of okra floating in a bowl of gumbo. Besides, Cajuns preferred palling around with crustaceans of the crayfish persuasion.
My conclusion? Henri probably started life as plain old Harry. His ooo-la-la accent was an affectation, not his cultural heritage.
“Please allow me to fit you for a suit,” Henri said to Cooper. “Of course there would be no charge.” Henri’s tail curled up into a question mark.
He studied Cooper’s current black leather and torn T-shirt ensemble. “I might be inclined to do your cycling jacket in puce suede and your T-shirt in magenta. Please, please, please? I have many celebrity clients.” He pointed to his photo wall.
Henri specialized in fitting up oddball shapes. His snaps showed him with the oddest balls in Toontown. Woody Woodpecker, Droopy, Porky Pig, Sylvester the Cat, and a menagerie of likewises. Henri did have as a client the one and only Toon I truly admired: Hall of Fame Toon baseball pitcher Christie Rosinbag. The first woman to play ball in the major leagues.
Christie was humanoid, blonde and gorgeous.
I had a big crush on Christie when I was a kid. I fell for her the day I first saw her—the day I got her baseball card in a package of bubble gum. Love at first sight, based on her looks. Then I flipped the card over and read what she’d done in the bigs. Her status in my mind elevated to just below those Toons who donned capes and costumes and battled crime on
the streets of Gotham City.
Both of Christie’s arms were four feet long and made of rubber, so she could do amazing things with a baseball.
Christie switch-pitched. She flung fastballs, curves, sliders, corkscrews, and her specialty toss, the flim-flamming, batter-baffling Christie Cross with either arm.
Christie pitched the Toontown Terrors to their only undefeated season and then on to a World Series victory over the Brooklyn Dodgers.
For years I slept with Christie’s baseball card under my pillow. I think I still got it someplace, in an old cigar box full of those pieces of my youth I can’t bear to throw away.
I listened to all of Christie’s games on the radio.
When I was about ten years old, I saw Christie pitch once for real. She threw a perfect game that day. Twenty seven up, twenty seven down. One of the thirty two no-nos she threw in her career. She signed a baseball for me afterwards. She wrote on it: “you’ll never lose if you keep bringing the heat.”
As a kid I lived by those words. Still do.
Henri’s clothes made his customers look good. No mean feat. Figuring out where to put the tail hole in a beaver’s tuxedo would take an engineering degree from MIT. Try computing the angular give to put into the shoulders when the sport coat’s wearer had six arms. Like Louie Louie Louse, who was featured in one of Henri’s shots.
Also up on Henri’s wall of sartorial splendor was none other than Willy Prosciutto. Willy sported a pinstriped suit nearly identical to the one he’d had on when we saw him. Willy had signed his photograph “To Hardwear Henri. Thanks for keeping me classy. Your buddy, Willy P.”
I had asked the rabbit where Willy Prosciutto most likely bought his suits. Roger told me here.
“You were right,” I told the rabbit.
“What do I keep telling you, Eddie? I’m a detecting demon! I made a cartoon once called Shearluck Holmes and The Baby That Went Wee Wee In The Night. I used a hot new acting technique a lot of Toons are trying out. It’s called The Method. You really get inside your character’s head. I don’t mean literally get inside there. That would be way too messy what with all the brain stuff floating around everywhere. I mean you get to know your character really good.”
“Method?” said Cooper. “You?”
“Yeah! Except in this case I skipped the pipe and the violin and cocaine and the cape and the funny hat.”
“What did that leave?” I wondered.
“The thinking, Eddie. The thinking! For instance, I know everything about suits. Don’t believe me? Put me to the test. Ask me anything about suits. I know about blue serge, three button, double breasted. Which, incidentally, is the kind that Jessica slips into when we’re playing gender bender, and I’m wearing her dress.”
“That’s enough!” I found the mental image of Jessica Rabbit doing Marlene Dietrich a little bit too exciting. “I got the picture.”
Boy, did I ever.
“When I saw Willy Prosciutto’s suit, I knew right away it came from here.” Roger grinned proudly. “Wanna hear more about suits? I can tell you everything there is to know about suits of armor, suits of cards, law suits.”
I tapped the photo of Willy Prosciutto. “Was he here yesterday?” I asked Henri.
“Indeedy do. He was here with his associate Mister Louse. Mister P is one of my best customers.” Henri lowered his antennae. He stroked one against the other in what I took to be a shame-shame-on-you gesture. “The porker eats like a swine. One, two wearings, and his suits are ruined. I told him he should consider having me whip him up an eating suit. Made out of rubber. Sort of a custom tailored diving suit. That way he could slip on his eating suit, go out to dinner, fling his food around the way he does, peel off his eater, and still have a nice clean suit to go dancing in later. He said positively not. He told me he’s a pig and proud to be a pig. I shouldn’t complain. He buys a lot of suits and always pays promptly.”
“How long was he here?” I asked.
“All afternoon,” said Henri. “I was fitting him for a new sharkskin suit. I just got in some fine new material. Mister P always wants me to call him first.”
Harry pointed to the back of his shop. Several shark skins hung from meat hooks. One skin still had a head attached. The skinhead looked at Roger and said “Just you wait, bunny boy. One day you’ll be lining a pair of leather gloves.”
“I certainly hope not,” said Roger.
“What’s your name?” asked the shark.
“Roger Rabbit.”
“My name’s Bruce,” said the shark. “I think we could become really good friends.”
“I know so,” said the rabbit. “I’m friends with everybody.”
Bruce wiggled his dorsal fin in a come hither manner. “Step a little closer, bunny boy. I got a secret for you.”
“I love secrets,” said Roger. He did as the shark asked.
“Hang on there, sport.” I grabbed Roger’s bony shoulder. I pulled him back just as the shark opened his mouth wide and bit.
“Geez, Eddie. Thanks. You saved my life.”
“You can do the same for me some time.”
“Fitting up a client for a new suit is a job that I don’t rush,” said the lobster. “Takes me hours. Mister P was here the whole time. I mean, he had to be, didn’t he? Since I was fitting him into the suit. That’s not something you can delegate to somebody else. You have to be here. Yourself. In person.”
“Yeah, yeah, I see.” I bought my suits off the rack. Sometimes mail order. I wasn’t within a hundred miles of them when they got stitched together. The rich and powerful do things different.
“What about Louie Louie Louse? Was he here too?”
“He was,” said the lobster, ruining another good theory. “Although—”
I could feel the heat as my theory caught a small spark of flame.
“—he did leave for a while.”
The lobster scratched his head, a dangerous and ticklish business when your scratcher is as sharp as a pair of scissors. Although probably not so much if your head’s as hard as a rock. “He caused quite a commotion when he got back.”
“How so?”
“He was in the back, cleaning his gun,” said the lobster. “He does that a lot to kill time when he’s waiting for Mister P. Hard to believe a gun can get that dirty.”
They get very, very dirty if they’re used often for dirty business. Like cacking a clown.
“You said he caused a commotion. What happened?”
“Well, Louie Louie was cleaning his gun, and the gun accidentally went off.”
“You said he was in the back. How did you know his gun went off?” Toon guns are silent, just like Toons. They produce a BANG balloon, but no sound.
“His bullet went right through Bruce’s hanger chain.” Henri pointed at the hanging shark, still fish-eying the rabbit and drooling. “The shark came tumbling down. Louie Louie came running out of the back room with the shark hopping after him. That shark was all set for a louse burger. Me, Mister P, and Louie Louie wrestled the shark back up onto its hanger.”
“What happened to Louie Louie’s BANG balloon?” I asked.
“The balloon got swept up with the cuttings and thrown out with the trash.”
Me and my gang went out back into Henri’s alley.
I went straight for the lobster’s trash can.
“Hold it, hold it,” said Sands. “This is great drama. I want a close up.”
He took his camera out of its cardboard box. Movie directors can turn the simplest operation into a three act extravaganza. Sands spent the next twenty minutes setting up for the shot. He tweaked his exposure, figured out his best angle, pulled his focus, and even corrected for windage.
“Okay,” Sands said after only slightly less time than it took to film G
one With The Wind. “Open the can.”
As my way of saying thank you for wasting my time, I stepped between him and the can, completely blocking his view when I pulled off the lid.
The garbage truck had already come and gone. The can was empty.
The Toontown Dump De Dump Dump was located at the corner of P and U.
Toon trash, being mostly stuff created from ink and paint, gave off the raw nose and eye-searing odor you’d smell if you lived down wind of a chemical plant.
Sands, Cooper and I covered our faces with hankies. That filtered out some of the stench, but not nearly enough. Roger clothes-pinned his nose shut.
“You want to be a detective? Here’s your chance,” I said to Roger. “Dig around in there until you find Louie Louie’s bang balloon.”
“Yes, sir,” said Roger giving me a surprisingly crisp salute. “I can do that. Yes I can. You just watch me. I’m a regular whizaroo once I get started.”
“Then knock off the commentary and get started,”
“You bet,” said Roger. He burrowed straight into that mountain of Toontown trash.
He was gone long enough for me to win fifty simoleons off Sands and Cooper playing poker, a game I perfected to high art during my Army days.
Roger emerged with both arms full of junk. He carried a rusty toaster, a broken iron, two busted slinkys, the husk off a coconut, four banana peels, and a rotten tomato. “Who would throw away good stuff like this?” he asked.
“I can’t imagine. You find the BANG balloon?”
“Sorry, Eddie. On that one, I got zilch.”
A big BEEP BEEP balloon shoved me aside. A Toontown dump truck whizzed past me. The truck stopped. The truck’s back end sproinged up and the truck’s contents spilled out. A fresh load of trash buried the rabbit.
