Who P-p-p-plugged Roger Rabbit?

by Gary K. Wolf

  Jake pumped a gallon of high test into my tank while I breezed Enigman’s file.

  First and foremost, Enigman needed to pop for a new shutterbug. The clicker who snapped his publicity still was doing him more harm than good. It’s not that the photo wasn’t unflattering. It wasn’t anything! The image showed Enigman’s head in full silhouette against a light background, strictly black on white. You could squint until your eyelids fused together and not make out a single detail of Enigman’s face. That’s no way to get work in a profession where you live or die by the depth of your chin dimple.

  According to Enigman’s bio, he’d done his early professional work on the legitimate stage with bit parts in Shadows in the Night and Dark Shadows.

  From there he graduated to the movies. First as a chorus boy. He was one of the hoofers behind Fred Astaire in the “Me and My Shadow” routine. Next he grabbed the title role in Shadow of the Thin Man, where he got third billing behind William Powell and Myrna Loy. His big breakthrough came playing the killer in Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt. He coasted from that success into the highly acclaimed Shadow on the Window and the equally well received sequel, Shadow on the Wall. He costarred in the cult classic Caribbean-lensed goose bumper Shadow of Evil. In his most recent outing, he acted the part of Lamont Cranston’s alter ego. Ty Power played Cranston the man. Enigman did him as The Shadow.

  Under awards, he noted a Tony nomination for a Broadway play about Javanese shadow puppets.

  I could sense a pattern emerging out of this tangled yarn, but darned if I could pick the woof apart from the weave.

  Enigman’s black cat gardener crossed the black asphalt driveway in front of me, riding on a black sheep who mowed the blackberry ground cover by nibbling off the leaves.

  I parked under a stand of black walnut trees, got out, and kicked away an overly friendly black Labrador retriever intent on coercing my leg to mother his child.

  Since you never know how a guy’s going to react after you call him a thief, I packed my powers of persuasion under my arm. Lucky for me I had an open-bottomed shoulder holster, since the barrel of Selznick’s Dragoon hung to my pelvic bone. I had to tuck the muzzle into my pants, otherwise it would have stuck out under the bottom of my coat.

  I climbed the black agate steps to the front door.

  Enigman must have had a swell time getting fire insurance. He had built his house out of coal, six-by-twelve blocks of prime, Appalachian anthracite, the hard, shiny kind that burns smoky and slow.

  Enigman’s doorbell played the opening notes from “Old Black Magic.” I touched my hand to the outer wall. It came away looking like I’d slapped a minstrel. I wiped the powdery black residue off on my shirt, under my armpit where it wouldn’t show.

  A raven in black livery opened the ebony door. I told him why I’d come. He guided me through a lightless hallway and parked me in a pitch-dark living room. From what I could see, and that wasn’t much, Enigman’s furniture came from that Bavarian forest where trolls chisel stately black maples into overpriced hassocks. I stumbled my way to a sofa the color of the ring around my bathtub.

  Somebody, I couldn’t see who, entered the room. I caught a strong whiff of Black Jack chewing gum. I stuck out my hand. “How do. I’m Eddie Valiant, private eye.”

  “Kirk Enigman,” proclaimed a vice-versa balloon, neon white lettering on a black background. The wide, scrolly script showed me an affinity for the dramatic. The precisely scribed letters indicated he took himself seriously. The clipped-out space between words told me he didn’t waste time. Give me another sentence, and I’d have the color of his underwear. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Silk boxers, solid black, custom tailored, changed fresh every morning, with your initials embroidered on the seat.”

  His words popped out at a cockamamie angle as my BVD bull’s-eye tilted his attitude toward the side of caution. “I beg your pardon? Have we met before? In a locker room perhaps?” His blinking questions floated past a bank of display shelves and illuminated his collection. Chess pieces. You know the color.

  “Could we throw some lamps on in here, Kirk?”

  “I’m afraid not.” A bat would ruin his eyes trying to read by the candle power of Enigman’s balloon. “Exposure to light blisters my skin.”

  “Dracula pleaded the same case.”

  “Except in my situation the problem is medical, not metaphysical.” To illuminate his joke, a string of balloons flashed in short, brilliant bursts, like news hounds photogging the stars at a Grauman’s premiere. “May I offer you a libation? I’m having Johnny Walker Black.”

  “I can’t see a man drink alone.”

  Old owl eyes pressed a hefty glass of black lightning into my hand. He offered me a snack but I passed, having no taste for dark raisin-rye bread spread with black pepper jam.

  He touched his glass to mine. “May the cold dark o’ dyin’ give ye a rest from the cruel light o’ day.”

  “Your toast doesn’t come with much butter.”

  “It’s an old family proverb. A heritage of my nationality.”

  “Which is?”

  “Black Irish.” He formed his capital letters out of bent and twisted shillelaghs. It’s amazing the silliness you can create out of thin air and a warped mentality. “Might I inquire what brings a private detective to my humble abode? Since it can’t be anything I’ve done, I assume you’re here to interview me regarding someone else.” His balloon came out pure as the driven snow. Two more like it and I could build my own Frosty.

  “No guilty secrets tucked away in a dark closet?”

  “None so heinous as to attract a minion of the law.”

  You can crack open a man’s facade slowly by gently tapping away at it with a velvet hammer, or explode it to pieces in one whack by piercing it with an ice pick. I chose the sharp pointy method and stuck it to Enigman right in the eye. “Cut the Gorgonzola, Enigman. You know why I’m here. Selznick wants his box back.”

  “His box?” Enigman’s balloon corkscrewed aimlessly in circles the way they do if they lose their bearings and can’t tell which way is up. “I’m sorry. I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.” In the few seconds before his floater faded, I caught enough light from its incandescent white words to get a make on him. He stood about my height, although with the wispiness of a vapor. He had the squiggly profile of an ink blot. He wore a black tie, black frocked coat, and black trousers with a crease that would slice his legs if he ever crossed them. He held his black silk cravat in place with a black sapphire stickpin. I just knew his favorite candy was licorice, and he took his coffee without cream.

  “You had a meeting day before yesterday with David Selznick. You, Roger Rabbit, and Baby Herman. Remember?”

  “Naturally.” He lit a smoke, cupping his hands outward so the sparkle of the match wouldn’t crinkle his photosensitive husk. “David’s none-too-subtle method of evaluating the contenders. I took the meeting because it played to my advantage. In a straightforward, side-by-side comparison with such ridiculous competition, I can’t help but shine.” His ciggie flared against a set of choppers as perfectly squared as a box of dotless dominoes. “It’s intuitively obvious. By any standard, I’m the superior choice. Let David name his criteria. Reputation, acting ability, physical stature, personal attractiveness, demeanor. Not to mention intelligence. Why, I’d win on my brightness alone!” The wattage of that statement’s rosy glow left spots parading in front of my eyes.

  “Choose a facetious rabbit or a morally stunted middle-aged toddler? Over me? Fat chance.”

  “Hold on to your black socks, Enigman. You’re not the patent leather shoe-in you think you are.” I goosed my eyelids up to hummingbird speed to clear away the coronas. “Selznick’s got a prejudice problem. He hates thieves.”

  “How could that possibly disqualify me?”

  “Easy.
When you strolled out of Selznick’s office, this box went with you.” I held up the picture. I don’t know if he saw it. I’m not sure I had it right side up or pointed in his direction.

  “There were three of us in that room. What gives me the black eye?”

  “Availability of hiding places. You’re the only one of the trio who wears clothes with pockets.”

  I’d have swapped a bonded bottle for a two-cell flashlight just to see the look on his face. “If I admit you’re right, which I’m not, and I return the box, I’d be knocking myself out of contention for the role of a lifetime. Wimpy would have a better chance of playing Rhett Butler. Why would I do such a thing? Incriminate myself to the man who can make or break my career?”

  “Remorse. An overpowering desire to clear your conscience. Happens a lot with me on the case. Goes under the name of deathbed confession.”

  His words came so close to my nose they spluttered bluster on my chin. “Is that a threat, Mr. Valiant?”

  I turned his balloon around and jammed it back in his kisser. “Read into it whatever you want.”

  His next balloon was more down to earth, so much so I had to bend over to read it. “Browbeat me to your heart’s content, Mr. Valiant. We’re debating a moot point. I don’t have Selznick’s box.”

  “Sez you.”

  “You don’t believe me? Feel free to search my house. I assume you know Braille.” His cackling laugh swirled the air between us the way a witch’s broom handle stirs a cauldron. “I’m an ambitious man, Mr. Valiant. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to achieve my goal, and nobody I wouldn’t do it to.” He demonstrated his evil inclinations by scraping his fingernails across his blackboard wall. “I want that role. I deserve it. One glance at me and any fool can see I’m the perfect Rhett Butler.”

  “You’re also the perfect thief. And that’s how I’m reporting it to Selznick.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Do that, and it’s you who’ll be blue.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it in Technicolor.”

  His teeth clicked together with the distant, faintly disturbing, rat-a-tat rhythm of a rascally rodent tap-dancing inside a pantry wall. “If you insist.”

  His unadorned statement twisted and bent into a bulb-encrusted arrow which tried to herd me along with alternating flashes of razzle and dazzle. I stood my ground. I’d wander aimlessly through the dark until I died of starvation before I’d take orders from a half-watt balloon. But the arrow refused to cease and desist. It none too gently prodded my behind, forcing me to concede its point. I followed it along a snaky, black mambo hallway, through a swinging blackout door, into a vat of pure India ink.

  I collided with a long, solid, waist-high obstruction. My hand caressed hardwood, metal, fuzzy mohair, and petrified chewing gum. No mistaking that combination, not with my background in the movies. I’ve never in my life gotten to a flicker on time. I’ve spent longer groping my way through darkened popcorn palaces than it took to film Birth of a Nation. Even in the pitchiest dark, I recognized theater seats when I fell over them.

  I sent Mr. Arrow flying. From here on, I could manage fine on my own. I high-stepped over the back of the row, lowered the spring-loaded cushion, and settled in for the show.

  With the ominous slap of an ill wind churning the Black Lagoon, Enigman settled in beside me. “Welcome to my private screening room, Mr. Valiant. I insist upon viewing films in the same environment as my public. To that end, I’ve gone to great lengths to duplicate the layout, style, and ambience of an actual cinema.”

  I must admit, he came close. Add a box of Good & Plenty, a pocket full of Jujubes, a red licorice whip, sticky floors, two kids smooching in the upper deck, and a crusty geezer to tromp on my arch supports on his way out to the can, and I wouldn’t know this from my local Bijou. “Whatever you’re planning to show me, save your electricity. It won’t change my mind.”

  “Oh, quite to the contrary, Mr. Valiant. It most definitely will.” His hand caressed a button on a control panel between us. A projector clattered, and the screen flickered to life. “Relax, and enjoy the show.”

  That wasn’t going to be easy. Enigman’s sprocket reeler opened the same way as one of those artsy, boring documentaries that substitutes a point of view for a plot line. First up came a grainy, overexposed, and unfocused wide-angle of a head-high stone wall.

  The camera swung around to show a panorama of empty lawn. The shot had as much interest and drama as an ant’s-eye vista of a green-felt pool table.

  “No newsreel? No short subject? No titles? No music? No sound?”

  “Wait, Mr. Valiant, wait. If you’re not impressed by the vision before you, I’ll cheerfully refund the price of your admission.”

  While I panned the film, the film panned a tennis court, a softball diamond, and a croquet setup. On the edge of the frame, standing between a bucket of fungo balls and a cart of wooden mallets, I could have sworn I glimpsed a khaki-coated bullyboy toting a Tommy gun, but it could have been my imagination, which plays nasty tricks on me while I watch movies about toe dancers, Kansas in August, or brewing farina.

  Finally, I got some action, if action’s your idea of a couple of Toons lounging beside a swimming pool, dangling their tootsies in the crystal-clear.

  They both had their backs to the camera.

  The one of the male persuasion sported a flowered silk shirt, white starched baggy shorts identical to the ones worn by tropical cops, and a wide-brimmed white straw plantation hat. His biceps were big enough to move out, get a job, and rent their own apartment. He swigged a dark liquid.

  His companion gave the lie to the term “better half.” She had him beat by at least three quarters, maybe seven eighths. Her outfit must have been designed by Oscar de la Mayer, since only a sausage machine could stuff her body into her suit. I couldn’t see her hair. She wore it tucked under a paisley scarf knotted in the complicated manner perfected by women, swamis, and sheiks of Araby. She overdid the gold bracelets a tad. Heaven help her if she fell in the water, because she’d sink straight to the bottom and tarnish to death. Her drink came in a hollow pineapple topped by a rice-paper-and-bamboo umbrella.

  She tilted her head slightly to the rear, listening to somebody. I prayed it was the cameraman instructing her to turn around. She nodded and did just that.

  My whole world turned around with her.

  Lucky for me I hadn’t shaved that morning. Without a fishnet of stubble to rope it in place, my jaw would have fallen off my face. The woman I found myself gaping at was none other than Lupe Chihuahua!

  She waved at the lens in the same lovey-dovey, come-hither way she’d waved at my brother Freddy from the stage of the Baba de Rum.

  Just as I decided this was as bad as life got, it got worse. Lupe prodded her male companion to turn around and give the camera a full frontal view. He none too gently waved her off. She pleaded the way only a gorgeous dolly can until he finally succumbed to the pressure of her lips on his ear. But he didn’t like it and didn’t pretend to. He glanced over his shoulder and sneered disdainfully at the shutter.

  My spine turned to Jell-O and took my brain along with it. The man on the screen was Tom Tom LeTuit! “You want to explain this?”

  “Be patient, Mr. Valiant, and everything will come clear.”

  LeTuit drained his glass and snapped his fingers for another hit. The waiter who delivered his shot moved like the drum major from Zombies on Parade. His legs didn’t bend at the knees nor his arms at the elbows, a grotesque hump topped his backbone, and his head tilted so far left his earlobe touched his shoulder. The camera zoomed in for a close-up on his tortured, contorted, tongue-dangling face.

  I leaped to my feet. “Freddy!” I screamed. “My God, Freddy!” But even that wasn’t the worst.

  I’m an adaptable sort. Given time, I could learn to live with my beloved baby brother being a zombie. The real shoc
ker, which I could never accept, was that someway, somehow, that vicious, no-good, bastard LeTuit had turned Freddy into a Toon!

  The spool of film pulled off the reel and slapped itself silly against the projector. The onscreen image flickered and died right along with my slender hope that I’d one day find my brother alive and little the worse for wear. “It’s impossible. Something that horrible can’t happen to a human being.”

  I was already as dizzy as a man trapped on a runaway TiltaWhirl. Enigman’s words made it worse by coming out tiny and shrill, buzzing my head like a bee burgling a begonia. “Indeed it can, and it has. You’ve seen it yourself.”

  “It’s trick photography,” I said. I jerked my thumb at the screen. “That’s not really Freddy.”

  “I can assure you, your brother is everything he appears to be.” Enigman stroked my arm the way a vet calms an anxious puppy. “You needn’t worry about him. Freddy’s perfectly happy with his new lot in life.”

  I shook loose of his hand and grabbed him by the lapels. “Where is he? Where’s Freddy? Who’s got him?”

  Enigman wiggled loose of my grip. “You want to be reunited with your brother? I can arrange it. But not without a quid pro quo.” His balloon took the shape of a highway sign indicating the only exit off a bumpy, dead-end road. “Tell David Selznick that one of the other two stole his box.”

  I would have strangled him, and gladly, except a choked man always dies with an imitation smile on his puss, and I didn’t want Enigman to expire even looking happy. “I got a better idea.”

  At six pounds apiece, his words carried the same weight as a solid brick wall. “My suggestion is not negotiable. I won’t listen to counterproposals.”

  “You’ll hear mine and so will your neighbors for two blocks on either side.” I reached under my coat and pulled out the Dragoon. “Tell me where my brother is, or I paint the ceiling with the walnuts rattling inside your head.”