Cornwell, Patricia - Andy Brazil 03 - Isle Of Dogs.txt

by Isle Of Dogs (lit)

  "What makes you think the police are looking for you?" the man on the line asked.

  "Because they stop me at the tollbooth and chase me for no reason. I had to hide and afraid for my life! The toll lady give me her number and say she help me."

  Andy strained to figure out why Hooter would have given out his home phone number to a possible fugitive, and then he recalled working the Bag Man case last year.

  "Maybe we should meet and discuss this," Andy suggested as he absently clicked the mouse and changed a word in the essay he would post momentarily. "There's no point in running from the police, even if you're innocent, because all you're going to do is create more legal problems for yourself. Why don't I meet you in a secure, safe place and we'll talk about it? I have connections and may be able to help you out."

  Cruz was tempted and possibly would have done the smart thing and met whoever he was talking to, but an unforeseen event began to unfold right before his very eyes. Through the expansive plate glass of the 7-Eleven, he saw a white woman walk into the convenience store and appear to be asking the clerk for help. Then a white man with dreadlocks staggered in looking stoned, and whipped a pistol out from the inside of his coat and pointed it at the clerk, who was away from the counter and the emergency button that all convenience stores have these days. Cruz couldn't hear what the white man was saying, but he looked very mean and violent as he mouthed abusive words at the terrified clerk in her orange-checked 7-Eleven jacket. She began to cry and beg as the white man cleaned out the cash drawer. Then, to Cruz's horror, the woman with long black hair calmly took the dude's gun, put it right against the clerk's head, and fired repeatedly. The explosions shook the phone booth and Cruz yelped.

  "What was that?" Andy asked, startled by what sounded like gunfire.

  "Ahhh! This white dude with dreadlocks! They just shot the clerk!" the Hispanic yelled over the line and hung up.

  Smoke? Andy wondered as he recalled the description of Smoke that the prison guard, Pinn, had given after Smoke had escaped. According to Andy's caller ID, the Hispanic had called from a 7-Eleven off Hull Street, south of the river, and Andy called 911 while Cruz jumped into his car and sped off.

  Cruz was horrified not a minute later to notice that the black Land Cruiser was right on his rear bumper. He had learned to drive in New York City and swung into several alleyways, gunned through a side street, then another, and roared across a median and threaded his car precariously through others until he ended up on Three Chopt Road in the parking lot of what looked like a huge mansion with tennis courts.

  A BRIEF HISTORY OF ZIPPERS

  by Trooper Truth

  A zipper, for those of you who may never have given the subject much thought, is also called a slide fastener and is a simple device for binding the edges of an opening, such as a fly, the back of a dress, or a freezer bag, although the latter is actually sealed by a zip lock that is more like gums--rather than teeth--clamping shut. The zipper device of interest to us consists of two strips of cloth, each with a row of metal or plastic teeth that interlock rather much like a railroad track when one pulls up the sliding piece. This railroad track then separates when one pulls down the sliding piece--unless the zipper gets off track or stubborn, which is what happened to that poisonous, lying Major Trader last night.

  The first slide fastener recorded in history was exhibited in 1893 by Whitcomb L. Judson, at the World's Fair in Chicago. Mr. Judson called his awkward arrangement of hooks and eyes a clasp locker. Within a few years, Gideon Sundback, a Swedish immigrant and electrical engineer, improved the device by substituting spring clips for the hooks and eyes, and in 1913 produced the Hookless #2, although it wasn't called a zipper until BF

  Goodrich coined the name in 1923, when the company manufactured zip-up overshoes.

  It goes without saying that if we happened upon a zipper in what we thought was a colonial grave at Jamestown, then we could at least conclude with some assurance that the human remains were post-1913. Just to linger with this scenario another moment, let's assume that while I was uncovering a grave at the archaeological site, I had indeed unearthed a zipper in the pelvic area of the skeletal remains. I would have immediately pointed this out to one of the archaeologists, preferably Dr. Bill Kelso, who is Jamestown's chief archaeologist and an expert on colonial artifacts, including buttons.

  "Dr. Kelso," I probably would have said, "look, a green stain in the dirt that is shaped exactly like a zipper. It's my interpretation that the green indicates a brass zipper that has eroded with time."

  The esteemed archaeologist most likely would agree with me and point out that as brass and copper shroud pins erode, they also leave a green stain, but a pin leaves a pin-shaped stain that is easily distinguishable from a zipper shape. He would go on to tell me that the medieval pin might be made of iron topped by a pewter head that was occasionally inlaid with glass or a semiprecious stone. But most pins found at historical sites are made of drawn brass wire with a conical head that is another piece of wire turned three to five times at the top of the shank and then flattened by a blow. This method of making pins continued until 1824, when Lemuel W. Wright patented a solid-headed pin that was stamped out in a single process.

  If we found a pin that was at least five inches long, then we would suspect we had a hairpin on our hands, and the person in the grave most likely was a female. If we found a safety pin, then the grave was post-1857. If we found a shroud pin, then the person in the grave had been reverently wrapped in a winding cloth when he or she was buried. Should we find brass wire fasteners for cloaks, then the grave may very well be seventeenth century. As for needles, Dr. Kelso would probably mention, we hardly ever find them because they rust unless they are made of bone, in which case we might conclude the remains were those of a rugmaker.

  "What about thimbles?" I might ask Dr. Kelso as I gently brush soil away from the zipper stain in my grave.

  "It varies," he could very well reply. "Depending on their usage."

  Thimbles of the 1500s and early 1600s were squat and heavy, as a rule, and rarely decorative. Should I uncover a very tall thimble, most likely the grave was mid-seventeenth century, and if a thimble had a hole punched in it, very possibly it had been traded to a Plains Indian who had hung it on a thong as a tinkler to spruce up clothing and pouches. The early Native Americans had a great sense of style and very much enjoyed wearing beads, bits of copper, household implements, and heads and body parts of wooden dolls.

  Most doll parts available to the Native Americans were cast in pipe clay from a two-piece mold. Highly prized by colonial boys were toy guns and cannons cast in pewter or brass and with fully drilled barrels, suggesting the little boys could shoot up James Fort if they pleased, or if a Native American got hold of such a toy and wore it on a thong, he might accidentally shoot himself in the foot or worse.

  Sadly, I did not find any toys or toy parts during my research with the Jamestown archaeologists, nor was it my good luck to find coins or even a button, although I did find a number of musket balls and an arrowhead and the skeletal remains of a woman who had been a chronic pipe smoker and hadn't cut her hair in four to seven years.

  In keeping with being a truthful narrator, I will state for the record that I did not find a zipper while excavating at Jamestown. But if I had, I most certainly would have recognized it on the spot and gathered abundant information from it.

  To return to that scoundrel Major Trader, he is at large and unremorseful. He was last seen shooting a pistol behind Freckles and quite likely is still in the city, going about his nefarious business as usual. If you click on the small jail icon in the upper right-hand corner, you can view a recent photograph of him with Governor Crimm, who is the gentleman on the left holding a magnifying glass. Please do not confuse the two. The governor is a law-abiding man and I would like to take this opportunity to say the following to him:

  I know it is a delicate subject, sir, but you really must do something about your eyesight, and I'd like
to suggest either a guide dog or a guide horse. I actually think the latter is the best way to go because the wait for a mini-horse is not as long, they live much longer than a dog, and you already have a dog who might take exception to another dog. I have taken the liberty to inquire as to how you might get a minihorse, and I've found that one is available this very minute. He is housebroken and at ease in sneakers so he doesn't slip on smooth surfaces. He enjoys traveling in the back of the car or van, likes other pets and children, and his name is Trip, because he loves to travel. I have taken the liberty of e-mailing the breeders to hold little Trip for you and call your office with the information, which they have promised to do immediately.

  On another subject, sir, someone should look into your butler's situation with the Department of Corrections. It has been brought to my attention that there may be a computer error and it is past time for your butler to be released from the prison system and work for you as a civilian instead of an inmate. And if I were you, I would look into Moses Custer's condition, too, and make sure he is in protective custody so his assailants don't hurt him again or worse. It is possible these same violent offenders struck again early this morning when a convenience store clerk was murdered, and they may even be connected to the brutal slaying of Trish Thrash.

  Governor Crimm, it is time for you to show Virginians that you personally care about them and have no agenda other than what is best for the Commonwealth.

  Be careful out there!

  Twenty-one

  Possum read the latest Trooper Truth essay several times and felt certain that the anonymous web crusader suspected that the assailants he mentioned were Smoke and the road dogs.

  "Why wouldn't he figure it out?" Possum whispered to Popeye, who was snoring on the bed. "Everybody knows Smoke's broke out of jail and is up to no good, 'cause he ain't capable of being up to anything else. Oh Lord, Popeye, what if the police somehow find our RV and haul us away, or Smoke gets in a shoot-out with 'em and all of us end up dead?"

  Popeye instantly woke up.

  "It ain't fair!" Possum went on, getting angrier. "What'd they have to go and kill that Seven-Eleven lady for? Now there's a 'scription of Smoke on the news 'cause somebody saw the shooting!"

  Possum took a deep breath and glanced back at the closed door several times.

  "Well, it's time I did something, " he whispered to Popeye. "And I'm gonna do it and just hope Smoke don't find out!"

  Possum typed an e-mail.

  Dear Trooper Truth,

  That Trader man you just wrote about is a pirate on the web who calls hisself Captin Bonny. I figured it out 'cause of what you said the other day on your web about Trader being relations with that woman pirate who I guess must be dead now.

  I think you could trap Captin Bonny by sending him an e-mail and setting him up. Just say you will leave him a waterproof suitcase full of what he's got coming to him and when he shows up, get him! Make up a screen name that's the same as mine so he thinks the e-mail's from me.

  P. S. There is a score planned that has to do with Popeye! That Trader man is the one who set her up to be stolt!

  Possum clicked on SEND NOW and glanced at the closed door with relief. Thank God, neither Smoke nor any of the other road dogs had seen what Possum had just done. Smoke would kill him for sure if he caught Possum sending an e-mail to Trooper Truth and turning in a source. Smoke would stomp, kick, and beat on Possum, leaving him for dead, just like Smoke had done to that innocent man Moses Custer, who, even as Possum was thinking all this, was being handed the telephone inside his hospital room.

  It's the governor, " Nurse Carless said in a blaring voice as the cuff of her nurse's uniform knocked over a cup on Moses' food tray and spilled orange juice all over the front of his hospital gown.

  "You sure?" Moses didn't believe her and thought if she caused one more accident, he was going to find the emergency alarm button and push it hard. "I mean, what if it's one of them pirates trying to find me?"

  Nurse Carless took the phone away from him, clunking him in the chin. "I'm afraid he's not here, " she said over the line as she wiped up orange juice and elbowed Moses in the Adam's apple.

  "No!" Moses grabbed the phone back from her. "What if it is the gov'ner? I can't be hanging up on him! Who is this, if you don't mind me asking?" he said into the phone. "Before we go looking around room to room for Moses, assuming he's even in this hospital or still alive, we need to make sure who wants to know. "

  "This is Governor Crimm. "

  "Which Gov'ner Crimm?" Moses asked, still unconvinced.

  "Governor Bedford Crimm the Fourth. There is no other Governor Crimm because each time there's been one, it's always been me. I've been the governor of Virginia three times now. Or is it four?"

  "We're still looking for this Moses person, " Moses said, not ready to trust the familiar voice quite yet. "But while I got you on the line, you mind I ask the names of your mama, wife, children, and any pets, and their ages and shoe sizes?"

  "I most certainly do mind your asking that and anything else personal, " the governor' replied, deeply offended.

  "Okay, okay. Hold on a second. "

  Moses put his hand over the phone and his heart began beating hard. It was the governor, all right, because no governor was going to answer personal questions like that, and a pirate trying to trick Moses into thinking it was the governor on the phone would have made up the answers.

  "Hello?" Moses said in a slightly higher-pitched voice. "Moses Custer speaking. "

  "Yes, yes, " Crimm said with a touch of impatience as he sat in his upstairs mansion office, dimly staring out at the fine view of the circular drive and guard booth. "Things seem very disorganized at your hospital, and whoever answers the phone is very rude. "

  "I tell you, it's a mess here, " the strange, squeaky voice replied over the line. "Ouch!" he said to someone. "You're caught on my cat tube! Don't you be accidentally tugging that out again! It hurts like hell when you stick it back in!"

  A muffled argument ensued, and the governor made out that Moses was tangled up in his catheter and refused to let the nurse remove it and switch him over to a bedpan.

  "I ain't using no pan!" Moses declared. "Knowing you, that pan will get slopped all over me and the bed! Just leave in my cat tube and take my tray outta here 'fore you spill something else or poke me with that fork! Okay, Gov'ner. I sure am sorry about that. But something wrong with that nurse. I tell you, she got some kind of condition, like Parkerson's or muscular dysentery, and every time she get near me, I get banged up as bad as I was after them pirates beat on me and stolt my truck full of punkins. "

  "Well, I'll certainly make sure I never go to that particular hospital, " the governor said as he scanned the latest Trooper Truth essay with his magnifying glass.

  "Oh, no sir. You should never even drive past this place, and for sure, don't never come inside. And it's my heartfelt hope, Gov'ner, that you don't ever need no hospital. I pray daily for your good health and prosperation. "

  "What?" The governor returned to the advice Trooper Truth had directed personally to him. "What's that about perspiration?"

  "Why, I don't know, " Moses puzzled, as Crimm assumed that the poor man must be heavily sedated.

  "Now, listen here. " Crimm got to the point. "The terrible attack on you has come to my attention and I wanted to see how you're doing and let you know that I have a personal interest in your condition and intend to make sure that you are protected when you leave the hospital. "

  "You do?" Moses's voice went up several more notes as what sounded like a food tray crashed to the floor.

  "Of course I do! You're a Virginian and it's my sworn oath to take care of every citizen in this uncommon and magnificent Commonwealth of ours. Now, when are you checking out of there?"

  The governor watched as the well-mannered Trooper Brazil drove through the front gates and parked his unmarked car in front of the mansion. Crimm couldn't remember if there was a reason for the young man to s
how up this morning, but it seemed it had something to do with Regina, and this was a tremendous relief. Regina needed something to occupy her attention, and the governor needed someone to protect Moses Custer.

  "I believe they're saying I can go home 'fore the day out, assuming that nurse don't break my head or give me the wrong medicine, " Moses was saying. "I sure do appreciate this. I can't believe I'm talking to the gov'ner hisself! Here I am being beat on one minute and all my punkins gone, then next thing the gov'ner hisself is on the phone saying I'm gonna be protected. And the gov'ner hisself even said he was sorry about what happened, even if it wasn't his fault, and I wasn't going to be in no kind of trouble for all them punkins clogging up the river. "

  "Of course, you're in no kind of trouble, " the governor said as he watched Andy get out of the car and Regina bound down the front steps, dressed in safari clothes.