by Gary K. Wolf
I grabbed Young Harry by the hind legs. Soaking wet, he hefted about the same as a calf-length argyle full of BBs. “Who’s there?” I repeated.
A balloon poked through the steam and bopped me on the nose. Condensation had filled it half full of water. The letters inside floated like skim on a bowl of alphabet soup. Using Young Harry’s tail as a rearranging tool, I deciphered the message. “Eddie! Thank goodness. Am I glad I found you. I’ve been looking everywhere.” The approaching shark fins dipped out of the vapor and became the ends of Roger Rabbit’s pointy ears.
I leveled a thumb at the door. “Members only, chum.”
“But I am, Eddie. I joined today. Joe gave me his special, limited time only, introductory offer.” He calculated the cost on his fingertips. “One month at half price, half a month at a third the price, a third of a month at a quarter the price…”
I threaded Young Harry through the collar of my jacket and out the bottom. I grabbed him by both ends, stretched him long, and whipsawed him across my back.
“…and twenty minutes FREE!” Roger’s fingers interlocked in a tight weave. He untangled his digits and plunked himself down beside me. His wishboney hips weren’t wide enough to anchor his Turkish towel, so he held it up with clip-on suspenders. His shower cap with its two ear holes resembled Clarabelle Cow’s milk warmer. For water-tightness, the ear holes drew shut with red drawstrings which Roger had looped into large, intricate bows that would have been the envy of Pollyanna’s pigtails. To keep his toes cozy, he sported bright yellow galoshes. His arms held a sponge, a squeegee, a mop, and an armload of dishrags.
Roger launched another soppy, indecipherable balloon.
“Knock off the gasbags and talk normal, will you? I can’t read a word you’re saying.”
“Sure, Eddie,” he said in his breathy squeak. “You name it. My p-p-p-pleasure. “ He yanked off his boots and poured the sweat out of them with a noise that made Niagara Falls sound like a drizzly squirt from a kid’s water gun. As he squiggled back into his footwear, he eyeballed my attire and launched enough question marks to supply the collected works of Sherlock Holmes.
“I wear my suit in the steam room because it saves on dry cleaning, all right?” I tugged my lapels to iron out the wrinkles. “You know, curiosity killed the cat.”
“Lucky for me I’m a rabbit!” He unrolled his tongue and ran his squeegee down the length of it. His eyes crossed as they followed the squeegee’s progress.
“This so important it can’t wait for regular office hours?”
He shook his noodle to restart the rolling marbles that activated his brain. He pushed his nose. His extended tongue reeled in like the steel tape measure a criminologist would use to administer a lie detector test to Pinocchio. “There’s been a truly frightening development in my case.” He ran his mop across his puss, nearly taking my head off as he swung the handle. “I’m terrified, Eddie. Scared nearly out of my wits.”
That didn’t stop him from draping the mop top over his noggin and pouting his eyes in a pretty fair impression of Tallulah Bankhead. Encouraged by that success, he stood up on the bench, hung the mop head around his waist, and demonstrated his hula-hula.
While he figured out a hundred and one ways to have fun with a mop, the heat and the wetness got to him. He blurred around the borders. “Oh, my golly,” Roger said with grave concern. He grabbed for the red emergency can of laundry starch clipped to the wall. He doused it liberally on his parameters as he dove headlong through the door. It shut behind him with a tired hiss.
I upended the hedgehog and slid him teeth first down each of my pants legs.
The door opened and Roger dashed back inside. His contours had nearly resumed their normal sharpness. “Aren’t you coming?” he asked in great big letters.
I leaned backwards against the bench behind me, lifted my arms, and locked my fingers behind my head. “Eventually.”
“Now! P-p-p-please! It’s really important, Eddie. Honest it is.”
He zipped out the door. His parallel black speed lines fell to the floor with a glockenspiel tinkle.
“I’ll be out when I’m good and ready,” I said to nobody in particular.
The hedgehog finished my pressing and held out his paw. I paid him off and added a big tip, the name of a sure thing in the fifth at Santa Anita.
I followed my client out the door.
Roger emerged from the locker room wearing a brown worsted suit, padded to bring his shoulders out even with his cheeks; a wrinkled, belted, double-breasted overcoat born in the trenches of Spade, Marlow, and Hammer; and a slouchy hat with a brim wide enough for peewee roller derby. Worse, I was wearing the exact same thing! I hated Mom dressing me and Teddy, or me and Teddy and Freddy, or me and Teddy and Freddy and my sister Heddy alike. You can imagine how I felt about twinning Roger Rabbit.
Joe walked by and gave us a take. “Geez, are you two related or something?”
“Oh, brother,” I said.
“Oh, brothers!” Joe responded. “I should have picked it up from the family resemblance.”
I sprung for lunch at my favorite cart, Dad’s Dogs and Other Fine Cuisine.
Dad ran it out of a motorized hotdog cart, his theory being that a rolling restaurant gathers no visits from the sanitation inspector. He set up shop wherever fate and the traffic flow took him, so you never knew exactly where he’d homestead day to day.
The health department must have been hot on his wheels. He wasn’t set up for business at any of his usual haunts. After half an hour of foodless searching, I drove through a neighborhood where every third person evidenced crossed eyes, a puckered green face, and a doubling-over case of stomach cramps. Backtracking a trail of discarded, half-eaten franks, I found Dad’s in an out-of-the-way alley. Parked, as usual, heading out for a fast getaway.
I docked my boat and went ashore. Roger stayed inside. “You coming, or what?” I asked him.
“That’s where you want to eat?” His balloon formed a pair of hands which grabbed him by the neck and strangled him until his eyes bugged out to the cone shape of paper water cups. Why did this fuzzy clown insist on turning every side show into a three-ring circus?
“Hasn’t killed me yet. What are you, squeamish?”
“To be honest, yes.” He thought up a road map and marked our position with a big, red, You Are Here arrow. “I know a restaurant not far away.” The arrow moved, got lost, reversed direction, took a shortcut through the La Brea tar pits, and arrived at its destination with half the street names in L.A. adhered to its sticky black tail. “I bet you’d love it. Best carrot soup ever. Great steamed broccoli, fresh lettuce, juicy…”
I was starving, my head ached, and I was in no mood to argue with a reluctant rabbit. I snabbed him by the ears and yanked him out through the window. “Trust me on this one. It’s better than it looks.”
His balloon had to squeeze itself pencil thin to worm its way through my fist. “That won’t be hard. It looks disgusting.”
Trust a Toon to over-exaggerate. Granted, Dad wasn’t one to go in for excessive cleanliness. Grease dripped off the underside of his striped umbrella. His steak meat got that way by losing too many races at Hollywood Park. He reused his paper plates. And you had to cover your face with a handkerchief when you ordered to filter out the thick, acid smoke overhanging the grill. But who cares about a lack of minor amenities? Could that man cook! He’s the only rotisserier I ever found who roasted and toasted hot dogs exactly the way I like them, one ember shy of a charcoal briquette.
“How’s business, Dad?”
“A mite slow today, Eddie.” Dad was married to the hotdog art. Like anybody who stays hitched long enough, he’d come to resemble his mate. Dad wasn’t much bigger around than a Polish sausage. His oversized Army surplus great coat encased him like a brown wool bun. Standing beside a flaming grill day in and day out had reddened his compl
exion to the color of a bratwurst. Dad advertised his selection of condiments—ketchup, mustard, relish, and horseradish—with large blobs on the front of his apron.
Way back when, he wore a traditional chef’s hat, but his low-hanging umbrella kept knocking it off. So he trimmed his headgear to fit under his bumbershoot, which left him sporting a white band and three inches of plume, like a paper booty snitched from a giant lamb chop. “You dining on dog?” he asked me. “Got one’s been over the flame since yesterday noon.”
“Sounds tempting, but a single frank’s not gonna cut the mustard today. I’m hungry enough to wolf a horse.” Keeping my hand low, out of Dad’s sight, I motioned for Roger to step forward. “I brought you another hungry customer. Famous fellow. Recognize him?” I pointed beside me to a hunk of empty air.
“Casper the Friendly Ghost?” tried Dad. He flipped a burger off the griddle, sniffed it, crinkled his nose, and threw it back on the slats to cook for another few hours. “The Invisible Man?” He tossed a batter-covered hot-dog-on-a-stick into a vat of frying oil suspiciously similar to the Quaker State that lubed my coupe’s engine.
I checked around for Roger.
Dad scratched his head. “Harvey?”
“You’re warm, very warm.”
Despite my assurances, Roger hung back. I motioned him forward. Reluctantly, he joined me at the standup counter.
“Well I’ll be dipped, Roger Rabbit,” said Dad. “You’re one famous galoot! You’re gonna eat here? I don’t believe it.” He handed me his barbecue fork. “Jab me hard in the arm, Eddie, to prove I ain’t dreaming.”
I begged off. “Take my word, Dad. He’s as real as life and twice as ugly.”
“Do me a favor, would ya?” said Dad to Roger. “Sign an autograph? It’s not for me, mind you, it’s for my missus. She’s one of your biggest fans.” He checked under the counter. “Got some blank paper somewhere.” He came up empty. “How about this?” He handed Roger a hard slice of day-old white bread.
Roger inscribed it in mustard, “To Mom,” added his paw print, and handed it back.
Dad gave the bread a curious look. “How’d you know her name?”
“Lucky guess.”
“She’ll treasure this forever.” Dad stored it in his toaster for safekeeping.
Dad slapped menus in front of us. “Trout’s especially fine today.” He reached into his larder and wrestled a half-eaten skeleton away from his cat. “Also some terrific specials.” He rattled them off. Rabbit stew, hasenpfeffer, rabbit dip, Welsh rabbit, rabbit McMuffin, and country fried rabbit, all you can eat.
Decisions, decisions. I ordered the sampler platter and a cup of black.
Roger, pleading a finicky stomach, went with Caesar salad to start, chef’s salad with a side order of spinach salad as a main course, and Waldorf salad for dessert.
Dad served our selections on two of the magazines he used for trays. Mine, a recent Photoplay, showed Loretta Young looking great even under yesterday’s relish stains. Roger’s Life pictured a smiling bookseller peeking out from behind a small mountain of Gone With the Winds.
We carried lunch to the car, spread it on the hood, and sat on the fender.
I took a bite. Dad must have picked up this recipe during his world tour of garlic festivals. “What’s eating you?” I asked around a mouth full of rabbit’s foot.
Roger reached inside his trench coat and withdrew a stuffed Roger Rabbit doll. “This.” He held it up.
Looked identical to hundreds of others I’d seen since Roger became a star. On sale in any toy store. The hottest item going, so I hear. Even available in a handy five-pack for kids who couldn’t afford a china bisque set of Dionne quints. “If you’re trying to peddle it, I pass. My teddy bear would get jealous.”
“You don’t understand!” Roger’s eyelids fluttered like a babbling semaphore. “I heard a knock on my door this morning. I answered it, but I found nobody there. Only this doll, propped on the welcome mat.”
“Dolls talk, they cry, a few even wet their britches. Maybe this one sells Fuller brushes door to door.”
“Not a chance.” Roger flipped the doll over and displayed its rear end. “Look at it closer.”
A word balloon hung from a hatpin poked into the quarter-inch hole where the doll’s missing cottontail used to be. The balloon said “Dead rabbits carry no tails.” I recognized the voice. It matched the one I gave Wordhollow.
Roger locked his hands behind his back and paced the hood side to side, rising and falling with the slope like a hiker touring the foothills of Hell. “I’ve been under such pressure lately. This business with Jessica, my screen test for Gone With the Wind. Now a threat to my life. I ask you, Eddie, what’s a rabbit supposed to do?”
There’s a question could keep a philosopher occupied for the rest of the century. I climbed into the car. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”
As Roger slid down the fender he slapped a balloon flat against my windshield. “Could you maybe,” it said, “if it’s not too much trouble, tell me how it’s going with the Toontown Telltale? Were you able to persuade that vile rag to print a retraction?”
I thumbed the starter button. “Not quite.” Three swipes of my wiper sent his question to oblivion. Roger eased open the door and slipped into the seat beside me. At first I thought he’d grown a second Adam’s apple, but it was his heart raising the extra lump in his throat. “There’s a major detail that still needs to be worked out.” Roger’s Life magazine wrapped itself around my radio antenna and hung there flapping in the wind.
“Let me hear it,” he said.
I told it the only way I know how, fast and ugly. “The story’s probably true. The Telltale has photos, eyewitness reports, hotel receipts, the works. I’ve seen murderers convicted on less evidence. If I had to judge based on my observations, I’d say Jessica’s cooching Gable.”
“She’s not!” Roger collapsed forward and bopped his noggin on the dashboard. “She’s not!” The impact sailed him backward. He smacked his cranberry on the rear of the seat. “She’s not.” He would have bing-bonged back and forth denying the obvious for the rest of the trip If I hadn’t grabbed his ears and shaken some sense into him.
“Don’t take it so hard, chum. It’s the story of life. Happens every day. A beautiful woman plays a rabbit for a sap. If it wasn’t for that, half the town’s columnists and three quarters of the divorce lawyers would go out of business.”
Roger pulled loose and stuck his whole upper body out the window. His ears flew parallel with my coon tail, and his fists shook to Heaven. What he yelled tore loose in the wind-stream. I read it in my rearview mirror. “It’s a lie,” it proclaimed before the car behind me ran it into the asphalt.
I yanked Roger back inside, reached across him, and cranked up the window. “I don’t want to raise your hopes, but there’s a chance, a slim one, you might be right.”
Roger’s face brightened so visibly he blinded an old lady in an oncoming Stanley Steamer. “Why do you think that?” he asked.
“It has to do with Gable. I want to check him over. See if he’s everything he’s cracked up to be.”
“Whatever it takes, Eddie. However much it costs. I’m behind you one hundred percent. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Yeah, maybe. You know Gable? Ever meet him personally? Have any dealings with him?”
Roger settled back in his seat. “No, never. And if I did, I’d… I’d… I’d ignore him.”
“You’re a feisty rabbit.”
“Darn right.” Roger’s balloon fluttered its edges but couldn’t muster the strength to soar. It caught on his forelock and flopped like a patch across his right eye. Too bad the Hathaway folks couldn’t see him. He’d be perfect for an ad if they ever designed a shirt boasting a three-inch neck and no shoulders.
I pulled into Roger’s driveway. Roger got out and s
hambled toward his front door.
I peeled his Life off my antenna. It was open to a picture of him schmoozing with David Selznick in the MGM canteen. “Hey, Roger. For your scrapbook.” I tossed it to him.
He caught it on the fly and read it as he walked away.
I backed the car out of the driveway, fiddled it into first gear, and punched the gas pedal.
Next thing I knew, Roger bounded into the middle of the road as only a hopping mad rabbit can. He stood directly in front of me, holding his yellow paw outstretched. I put on the brakes, thankful for quick reflexes and a wheezy engine.
“That’s a good way to kill yourself,” I yelled at him out the window.
He jumped onto my running board and shoved the Life photo in my puss. “Eddie, this isn’t me.”
I took a second gander. Looked exactly like the Roger clinging to my door breathing swamp gas in my face. “You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Don’t you think I can recognize myself when I see me? I’m telling you, this rabbit’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
I ripped out the page and stuck it in my pocket. “I’ll drop by Selznick’s office and ask him.”
He cocked his head. “Are you kidding? David Selznick’s a very important man. He only sees Hollywood’s top dogs.”
“Call me Pluto.”
I stopped in a gin mill for a pack of smokes. One thing led to another and pretty soon there were five empty bottles of Schlitz on the bar, I’d lost an arm-wrestling match to a white-haired woman who called me Whippersnapper, I told my one good joke where I turn my pants pockets inside out and impersonate an elephant, and MGM was closed for the day. A Boy Scout abandoned a hobbling granny midstreet to help me to my car.
After I figured out how to start it and kicked it into gear, I did the same as I always do the times my hard head needed a soft shoulder. I drove over to see Doris.
I parked outside her bungalow. Since she didn’t answer her doorbell or come to the bedroom window after I broke it with a rock, I deduced she wasn’t home. Nothing to it. Any correspondence school hawkshaw could have figured it out. I poured myself a time waster out of the glove compartment, and settled back to wait.
