by Gary K. Wolf
“Any advance, Mister Cooper?” asked the auctioneer.
Cooper shook his head and sat down.
“Going once, going twice, Toonie Island is sold to Mister Willy Prosciutto.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Toonie Island’s House O’ Fun sat mid-way down the midway.
You entered the House O’ Fun through the open, cavernous mouth of a huge plaster sultan’s face. The creepy, wide-eyed, leering sultanic expression seemed more appropriate for the gateway to a house of horror than one of mirth. Though I was the wrong guy to make that call. I never went to carnivals or amusement parks. After you’ve rolled through Europe riding on a tank and toting a Thompson submachine gun, bumper cars and BB gun shooting galleries seemed pretty tame.
Willy P had set up a wooden table and chair between the sultan’s slightly fanged upper and lower choppers. From this toothsome vantage point Willy P could watch and enjoy the demolishment of Toonie Island’s rides and attractions.
Way over at the end of the park, at the point closest to the ocean, Louie Louie Louse had strapped himself into a harness behind the head of a long necked, long tailed dinosaur. I had seen this demo style before. Guided by the louse, the dinosaur would sashay through the park. What the dino’s massive feet didn’t pulverize and smash to smithereens, the dino’s swishing tail would whisk away. A few hours of rambling ruination would turn Toontown’s ocean side playground into a quarter inch of rubble.
“Didn’t take you long to start the demolition derby,” I said to Willy P.
“I don’t need roller coasters, tilt-a-whirls, merry-go-rounds, side shows, or cotton candy stalls, Valiant.” Willy P had a turtle balanced on his head, the Toon equivalent of a hard hat. “I need empty space.”
Off in the distance, Louie Louie put up a balloon. His words took a fair amount of time to reach us. “Ready any time, Mister Prosciutto,” said the louse’s balloon once his words finally arrived.
“Stick around, Valiant. Watch the show.”
“You’re not destroying anything, Willy. Not today, not ever again.”
I unslung my duffel from over my shoulder and set the bag on the floor, then pulled open the drawstring.
Mutt scampered out.
In his little jaw the furball held a short stack of number-filled balloons from Willy P’s pilfered ledgers. I took the balloons and rewarded Mutt for his fine secretarial work with one of the bone shaped cookies I had taken to carrying in my jacket pocket.
“I got the goods on you, pork belly,” I told Willy P.
I held the balloons out between us.
Willy P took the balloons and read them.
Willy P’s piggy nostrils flared wide. “Honey Graham. That ungrateful little bitch! This is how she repays me for all our years together.”
I shook my head. “If you can’t understand why she turned on you, after what you did to her, then your brain’s as pickled as your feet.”
Willy P crumpled the accounting balloons and tossed them into the air. The shore breeze caught them and carried them out to sea.
“That won’t do you no good, Willy. Plenty more where those came from. Once I make your dealings public, once the good citizens of Toontown get a load of your financial fiddling, your money laundering, your dummy corporations, your seashore shell game, your under the table deal with Dowdy Chemical, you’re one cooked pork chop. Toons might be goofy as grapefruits, but they ain’t gonna sit back and let you and Dowdy befoul the Toontown shoreline with toxic chemicals once they find out that’s what you’re planning.”
Willy P stood up and threw a cloven hoof across my shoulders. “You’re a smart guy, Valiant. I’m betting you’re always thin on cash. How’s about we strike a deal? After I clear this trash off Toonie Island, I’m gonna sell the whole Toontown shoreline to Dowdy Chemical for a hundred times what I paid. You give me back my ledgers, you keep your trap shut, we forgive and forget, and I cut you a slice of the pie.”
“No dice. I ain’t forgiving or forgetting that you killed my client. I’m bringing you in for the murder of Clabber Clown.”
Willy P held up his elegantly dandified, filed, buffed, and clear lacquered hooves. “My hands, as those say who have them, are clean on that matter. You want Clabber’s killer, talk to your buddy Roger Rabbit. Clabber himself said the rabbit snuffed him. You was there when we read Clabber’s balloon. No way of faking a balloon. Can’t be done.”
“True. Not by you or me. One guy is capable. Professor Ring Wordhollow. He’s got the knowhow and the skill to counterfeit a word balloon perfectly. The way I scope the action, you had Louie Louie steal the clown’s balloon from my hotel room. You gave the balloon to Wordhollow. Wordhollow soaked the letters off and phonied up new words implicating the rabbit. The scheme worked extra fine since Wordhollow himself swore to the balloon’s authenticity.”
Willy played dumb, “Why would a fancy schmancy egghead get involved with that kind of disreputable fakery?”
“Lots of reasons. First and foremost, Wordhollow’s on Dowdy’s payroll. Then there’s the little matter of you giving him a big winning tip at the races. To get money which he’s investing in a cozy, buddy-buddy real estate deal which I bet involves you selling off the Toontown shoreline to the company that’s paying Wordhollow’s freight.”
Willy kept playing innocent. “Like I said, we’re slicing up a very big pie. I have trouble keeping tabs on everybody who’s gobbling a piece.”
“What about your buddy Sands? He getting part of the action?”
“Sands? That film guy? No buddy of mine.”
“Come on. Don’t play dumb. Remember. I saw your books. You’re the big investor underwriting Sands’s movie.”
“Silly me. I forgot.” Willy shrugged. “Nothing wrong with supporting the arts. Dowdy put me and Sands together. In return for my financial support, Sands agreed to include story references portraying me as an upright citizen and Dowdy as a civic-minded do-goody corporation.”
Clever idea. Use a Hollywood movie to shape public opinion. Or even push products. Show Humphrey Bogart smoking Luckies or Lauren Bacall blowing a Hohner harmonica instead of a whistle.
“The way I lay out this case, you were gonna snuff the clown, have Doc Trinaire adios the body, and then have Wordhollow fake up a statement from Clabber turning Toonie Island over to you. Your grand plan started to unravel when Sands accidentally filmed the aftermath of your louse killing the clown, and I started poking around.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Enough with the mealy-mouthed denials. You killed the clown. I got you dead to rights. Admit what you did. Get the weight off your chest, or in your case, your spare ribs.”
Willy P reached under his turtle hat and scratched the sow’s ear he would never be able to turn into a silk purse. “Clabber and me had incompatible philosophies,” said Willy P. “I wanted to make money. The clown wanted to make people laugh. I’m asking you. Who’s laughing now?”
“What was really on that balloon Clabber gave me to hold?” I asked.
“What you’d expect,” said Willy P. “A pot load of incriminating stuff I wouldn’t want going public.”
“Why hang the blame for Clabber’s murder on the rabbit?”
“Had to pin the stink on somebody.”
“You were sinking big cash into Sands’s movie. Why incriminate his star?”
“There’s plenty of rabbits in Toontown. You lose one, you get another. Roger’s a two-bit bunny. I told Sands right from the start that Bugs would do a better job.”
Willy P gave me the squinty, malevolent stare that gave rise to the expression in a pig’s eye. “You’re too smart for your own good, Valiant. Bringing you in on this movie project was a big mistake. Sands wanted to hire a bodyguard for Cooper. I told Sands that wasn’t necessary. Waste of money. I decid
e who gets hurt in Toontown. Cooper was as safe here as in his own living room. Sands went ahead and hired you anyway. Your tough luck. Cause I can’t let you walk out of here alive knowing what you know and ready to spout to anybody who’ll listen. “
Willy P put up a word balloon summoning his louse. The balloon read, “Hold off on the destruction. I got another job with higher priority. I want you to take Mister Valiant on a one way ride.”
I reached into my duffel and pulled out my ping-pong ball machine gun. I aimed the gun and squeezed the trigger, peppering his balloon full of holes. That prevented his words from taking flight.
“Clever, Mister Valiant. However, a ping ponger’s magazine only holds twenty. You fired eighteen. Two more and you’re empty. I got way more balloons than you got balls.”
I stepped in so close to him I could see the tiny hairs on his chinny chin chin. I pumped my last two balls straight into his blowhole. The dual balls stopped him up and kept him from floating more balloons.
Undaunted, Willy P switched to spoken word.
Willy P removed his turtle from his head. “Hail the louse,” Willy P told the terp.
I kept that from happening by stuffing my Toontown-special rubber sap into the turtle’s blowhole.
“Okay, if that’s how you want to play this game,” said Willy. “Fetch my louse,” he told the turtle. “Tell him to get over here pronto.”
The turtle headed off toward the dinosaur, moving at turtle speed.
“What you gonna do next?” asked Willy. “What else you got in your bag of tricks? I know the kinds of weapons they allow humans to bring into Toontown. Gonna beat me with a rubber cosh? Bonk me on the snout with your rubber cudgel? Give me a couple of shots from your dart gun? Maybe pepper me with elastics from your cardboard rubber band shooter?”
“None of the above.” I reached into the duffel and brought out a gun.
“Your cap gun,” said Willy P. “Good choice. Fire a whole roll and you might rupture my eardrums. Let’s see how your gun compares with mine.”
Not having the benefit of a hand and fingers, a pig couldn’t hold a gun in the traditional way. To facilitate firearms, Willy P used a contraption that fit under his shirt sleeve. When he rotated his shoulder, his gun popped out automatically. He could fire the weapon by clapping his hooves.
“I let Louie Louie have the fun of killing the clown. I’m gonna eliminate you myself.”
Willy P clapped his hooves together.
His gun went off.
Hard to aim, clap, and still shoot accurately. His first shot missed.
Not by much though. His bullet went only slightly high, punching a hole my hat.
“One for the money,” said Willy. “Here comes two for the show.”
I pointed my gun at Willy P’s fat head.
“Go ahead, Valiant. Explode a few caps. Maybe you’ll scare me to death.”
Willy P braced himself for his second shot.
I squeezed my trigger.
I blasted the pig smack between his eyes with Miss Ethyl’s snub-nosed .38.
I exited the House O’Fun and walked toward the dinosaur-riding louse.
I passed the turtle who had barely covered half the distance.
The louse and his dinosaur were facing out to sea. The louse didn’t see me coming.
My .38 would drop the louse but not a dinosaur. If Louie Louie sicced that creature on me, I would be trampled flat.
I needed a dinosaur destroyer.
I reached into my duffle, pulled out and lighted one of my sparklers.
Louie Louie turned around in his harness and spotted me coming at him with sparkler in hand. “Getting a head start on the Fourth of July are you, Valiant?”
“Nope. I’m celebrating Dia de Muertos. The Day of the Dead.”
I used the sparkler to ignite one of my skyrockets. The rocket flew straight and true.
Straight up the dinosaur’s bingo bango bunghole.
The dinosaur reared and gave a loud screech. The louse tried to hop off the dinosaur’s neck, but Louie Louie’s harness got jammed and refused to release.
With Louie Louie firmly secured to his neck, the dinosaur dove into the sea and swam away to parts unknown.
Since I couldn’t trust the Toontown constabulary, I went up the ladder to the next law enforcement level and called in the FBI.
I needed somebody to watch Mutt in case I had to spend a few hours laying out my story. So I called Roger too. The rabbit wasn’t good for much, but I figured he could open a can of dog food.
Roger arrived just as I was giving the basics of the case to FBI Agent E. Lectro Luxe.
“The FBI?” said Roger after I introduced him to Agent Luxe. “The Funny Business Investigators?”
“That’s us,” said Agent Luxe. “I have to tell you, this affair includes the funniest business I’ve seen since I enlisted.”
I continued with my wrap up.
“Professor Wordhollow consults for Dowdy Chemical. Dowdy hooked Wordhollow and Willy P together. Wordhollow bogused up a word balloon falsely incriminating Roger for Clabber’s murder.”
“I’m innocent?” said Roger. “I didn’t kill Clabber Clown?”
“You’re saying that like you weren’t sure.”
“Well, this is Toontown where odd things happen. If I didn’t kill Clabber Clown, who did?”
“Louie Louie Louse. Under orders from Willy P. “
“Just like I figured all along,” said Roger, taking credit where no credit was due.
“Barney Sands is dirty, too.”
“No!” said Roger.
“Yes. Guess who Sands’s mysterious movie investor was?”
I should have known better than to phrase my rundown in question form. Questions threw Roger for a loop. Or worse. A loop-de-loop.
“Oh, oh, I can figure this out.” Roger held up his hand and counted off on his fingers. “This little piggy. He went to market.” Next finger. “This little piggy, he stayed home.” He moved on to his next digit, the longest one, the finger commonly associated with obscene gestures. “This little piggy…that would be Mister Prosciutto! Is Mister Prosciutto the right answer?”
I didn’t understand Roger’s methodology, but I couldn’t argue with his results. “Correct. Willy P was funding Sands’s movie.”
“No!” said Roger. “Poor Mister Cooper. Being duped by that pair of unscrupulous scoundrels.”
“I’m not so sure.” I asked. “Cooper’s pretty tight with Sands. He might be in on the game himself.”
“He can’t be,” said Roger. “Mister Cooper is such an honorable, upstanding, and heroic man.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “You’re in the make believe business. You know how acting works. Film roles aren’t a good indication of a man’s true measure. Baby Herman’s no innocent baby. Just because Cooper always plays a hero doesn’t mean he is a hero. Cooper might have been helping Willy P set up his frame. Remember, Cooper said he saw Clabber in the steam room. That wasn’t Clabber. That was somebody pretending to be Clabber so we would believe the clown was still alive, thus giving Willy P more time to implicate you.”
Roger shook his head. “Why did Mister Cooper pay you to help Clabber when Mister Sands said no? Why did Mister Cooper say he saw Louie Louie at the Fireworks Factory? Why did Mister Cooper try to outbid Willy at the Toonie Island auction?”
“I can’t say for sure. Maybe Cooper’s behavior had something to do with his method acting practice.”
“Gee whizz,” said Roger. “In our Hi, Toon! movie, Mister Cooper does play a petty criminal trying to go straight but getting sucked back into a life of crime.”
“In that context, the way Cooper behaved makes wobbly sense.”
“I gotta tell you, E
ddie, I don’t understand any of this,” said Roger. “This story is confusing even by Toontown standards, and Toontown has the lowest standards anywhere.”
“We’re through with you, Mister Valiant,” said Agent Luxe. “We arrested Sands an hour ago. Professor Wordhollow, too.”
“Nice work,” I said to Agent Luxe.
“You too,” he said. “Call me if there’s ever anything your government can do for you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I can’t believe you’re with the FBI,” said Roger.
“Here,” said Agent Luxe holding out his badge. “Take a closer look.”
Roger leaned in and peered intently at Agent Luxe’s badge.
A stream of water gushed from out of the center of the badge and splashed Roger’s nose.
“Now do you believe me?”
“Gosh, Agent Luxe, I sure do!”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I drove my clunker up the coast to San Francisco, ground zero for society’s oddballs; the free-versed poets, off-keyed musicians, quirky novelists, way-out playwrights, paint-splattering artists, humorless comedians, kooky politicians, and unworldly weird science fiction writers who had turned San Fran into a human Toontown by the Bay.
I hopped aboard the hourly ferry that sailed from Fisherman’s Wharf across the water to the federal pen at Alcatraz.
Alcatraz was the repository for the nation’s hardest-cased criminals. I wouldn’t have put Barney Sands in that league. The government thought different. After his trial, they stuck him in here with the big bad boys.
I took a seat at the little metal table in the visitor’s room. A guard opened the door separating me from twenty to life.
Barney Sands came in.
The Feds had confiscated Sands’ hairpiece. Instead of resorting to prison wiles and crafting a near duplicate from horsehair ticking pulled out of his mattress, Sands had gone the Yul Brynner route and shaved his head. His noggin was too lumpy to suit the style, but bare skin sure beat what he’d been doing before—covering his dome with the equivalent of a dead squirrel.
