Stuffed

by Brian M. Wiprud

  “Waldo would not sully his reputation!” he exploded. “MacTeague is a hack! His Bimini mermaids are junk! You hear? Junk! Trash! Garbage!”

  Man, these Klingons are so tightly wound.

  “So MacTeague made gaffs?”

  “Those are not gaffs!” His flying spittle reached me all the way from Florida. “MacTeague couldn’t make a true gaff if his life depended on it. He shames himself and the showmen who buy his roadkill!”

  “Who could possibly come close to Waldo’s perfection?” I was pushing it, but I’d got pretty much what I was looking for already.

  “You are a man of discernment!” he hissed, like a campfire hit with a bucket of water.

  Discernment? Is that a word? Whatever—he was finally warming to me, at least a little, I hoped.

  “What can I say? I appreciate fine art, fine craftsmanship. Waldo is a master, everybody knows that. Did Tex or MacTeague come to Waldo for any parts, any help with making a Sasquatch?”

  “Waldo has not communicated with either in years,” he spat. “But know this: If MacTeague was involved, this atrocity he would call gaff would look like the work of a child. There would be no suspension of disbelief.”

  “Look pretty fakey?”

  “Very, very fakey.”

  A light on my phone lit up. Another call. Angie?

  “Waldo has been very helpful, and Garth is extremely thankful for Waldo taking time out of his busy day to consult with him.”

  He hung up without a word.

  I pushed the blinking button.

  “Angie?”

  “Hi, sugar lips!”

  “I was worried out of my mind.” Angie sounded great, and I groaned with relief. “Where are you?”

  “Sea Bass Motel, in beautiful downtown Mallard Island. Guess what?”

  “What?”

  “We know who Guy Partridge is.”

  “Who?”

  “You know, Guy Partridge, the one who bought the crow?”

  That was in the morning, and this was night, but it seemed like a million years ago. “Yes, I remember—so who is he?”

  “Think. He’s been on television.”

  “We’ve got a vintage thirteen-inch TV that gets all of three stations.”

  “Partridge was the guy who had those specials on TV where he went looking for the Loch Ness Monster, or that dinosaur in the Congo. A real eccentric, rich, an adventurer into the unknown.”

  “Yeah, right, okay. So is our crow his crow?”

  “Get this. He collected all sorts of spooky stuff in his mansion here, including taxidermy. He was robbed of a bunch of skins just the way we were. Except he was killed.”

  “Killed?”

  “Stabbed. And one of the things they took was a white crow in a bell jar. Got the scoop down at the station hall. The local police are real helpful. They seem kind of bored.”

  And probably deferential to cute blondes, I mused. My cute blonde. “But we don’t know for sure it’s the same crow?”

  “Well, I mean it was in a bell jar and all. . . . Oh, and listen to this. It says here that when Partridge died, they found out he didn’t have five million dollars to pay for a Big Foot. In fact, he was practically broke from throwing money at his expeditions and publicity. He still lived in a mansion near here but all alone because he couldn’t pay his household staff. That’s sad.”

  “Back up. What about Big Foot?”

  “Let’s see. I got some clippings from the library. . . .” I could hear her shuffling papers, then she cleared her throat. “Guy Partridge, Mallard Island’s wealthiest . . . blah blah blah . . . was apparently stabbed to death with a carving knife during a daylight robbery. He was known for his exploration into the unknown, the occult, UFOs . . . blah blah blah . . . He used a submersible to fathom Loch Ness’s mysterious . . . blah blah blah . . . his recent special taped in the Pacific Northwest in which he challenged America to prove the existence of Big Foot . . . blah blah . . . He’d just flown back from research in Korea, where he claimed to have physical proof of a kving-kie, a mythical wild cow with magic horns—”

  “Whoa—again, what about Big Foot?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What does it say about Big Foot, exactly?”

  “Oh, well, like I said . . . Typical of Mr. Partridge’s style was his recent special taped in the Pacific Northwest in which he challenged America to prove the existence of Big Foot. This quest gained him widespread media attention and legal troubles when he offered a ‘dead or alive’ reward for the capture of an actual Big Foot. State game officials arrested him for conspiring to kill protected species. Under Washington game laws, it is illegal to shoot or conspire to kill any bird, mammal, or reptile not listed as a game species. After paying a fine, Mr. Partridge altered his offer to read ‘alive or any mortal remains.’ Mr. Partridge’s five-million-dollar reward went uncollected, although a number of hunting accidents were blamed on those trying to cash in on his offer. His seaside Maine estate was besieged for a time by hoaxsters with photographs and plaster footprint casts, but none with physical proof. That’s all there is about Big Foot, sweetie.”

  “Wait a second.” I rummaged through my wallet and came up with piece of paper. “Remember that ad Durban gave me? WANT MY WHITE CROW BACK. No questions asked, finder’s fee. P.O. Box 34, Wells ME 04090. But Partridge lived on Mallard Island.”

  “Oh my gosh, Garth. That’s right. The ad! Mallard Island is just down the road from Wells. You have some idea about what’s going on, don’t you?”

  “To make a long story short, I think carnies tried to pass off a sideshow Big Foot on Partridge for the five million and then for whatever reason ended up killing him for the crow. So now we know where they got the crow, more or less how, but not why. Dammit.” My stomach went sour. Angie was too close to the source of this imbroglio.

  “Partridge is trying to get it back?” Angie snorted. “But he’s dead. I don’t get it, Garth.”

  “I don’t get it either.” I tried to avoid any suspicious pauses. “Somebody else must be trying to get it back. Look, you didn’t go up to his house, did you?”

  “I went up to the gatehouse and partway up the drive before I noticed a dented green car, probably a caretaker or something. It kind of blended with the bushes. I decided to walk back to my car rather than get kicked out. Maybe I’ll try again in the morning. Too dark now.”

  My jaw tightened. “A green car? Like an Escort?” MacTeague had a flight leaving from Maine the next day and Tex was cruising around in a green heap with Maine license plates. Tex could have gotten there in the hours since he dropped a boulder on the Lincoln. Might he and MacTeague have a rendezvous on Mallard Island to sell the crow back? Might they have recognized Angie at the gatehouse? If they knew she was around asking questions, what would they do? And who was the joker in the deck with the Wells P.O. box?

  All sorts of leads were pointing—shoving—me toward Maine. I’ve since learned that such compulsions are like being worked over by a pushy car salesman. He makes you want to buy the clunker with the CHERRY! sign on the windshield, when all the while there’s a strangled voice deep inside telling you to kick him in the shin and make for the hills. I should have told her to get the hell out of there.

  “An Escort? Why?”

  “Look, Angie, a lot happened here today, too much to go into. But that may be Slim’s car. If he saw you or knows you’re there—look, it could be they’re back there at Mallard Island right now with the crow, selling it to the guy in the ad.”

  “Here?”

  “And I’m on my way,” I gulped, “leaving now. Listen, Angie: Stay in your room, lock the door, and don’t open it for anybody. They may know you’re around. I’ll be there in a couple hours.”

  “Should I do anything? Call anybody?”

  “Just sit tight.”

  I hung up and looked over at Walker lying on the other bed. He had one bloodshot eye and his smirk trained on me.

  “Just where do you
think you’re going, Carson?”

  “I gotta go meet Angie.” I sat up. “I think she may be in over her head.”

  “Where’s she at, Carson?”

  “Maine, somewhere.”

  Walker got up casually and stretched. “Maine, huhn?” I heard a click and felt something hard and cold hit my wrist, namely a handcuff. “That’s a long ways from here. What would happen if our friend the cowboy showed up and we weren’t here?”

  “Take this thing off, Walker!”

  He snapped the other end to the bed before I could jerk it away. “You’re the bait, and you’re staying right here.”

  “Look, Walker, wanna get your sergeant’s stripes? Want to solve this case single-handedly? Come with me to Maine. Angie called, and she’s found something that leads me to believe what these characters are after is in Maine. See this note, this ad? Somebody there is looking for the crow.”

  “We’re after a monkey, Carson.”

  “But the crow . . .”

  Walker sauntered off to the bathroom with a Sports Illustrious, turned on the fan, and closed the door. I was furious but knew that splitting a gut would only give him perverse satisfaction. So while Walker caught up on a little light reading, I started fumbling around in my pockets, then my bag, then the desk drawer looking for something—anything—that might work as a lock pick.

  The only thing handy was a red ballpoint pen, which I promptly jammed into the lock and deftly got it stuck in there. So I grabbed the pen with my teeth and yanked it free, only to find the front part was still in the lock. I also discovered a sour taste in my mouth: ink. A handy pillow became smeared in red ink as I used it like a salt lick to hastily wipe my tongue.

  My frantic tongue-scraping came to an abrupt, chilling halt: The front doorknob was turning, the door pushing slowly open.

  I was trying to formulate some intelligible yell to my protector on the throne when Otto popped his grinning, satyrlike face around the door frame. He was dressed in what I guess he considered vacation-wear: a garish, wide-striped sport coat, white slacks, two-tone shoes, and a white dress shirt with stiff collar points that reached halfway to his navel. Must be what Russians wear when making the swinging beach scene on the Baltic.

  He threw the door open and splayed his arms apart, a robust greeting welling up from inside. A finger to my lips managed to shut him up. Or maybe it was the handcuffs. He dropped his bag and tiptoed up next to me, his stinky tobacco breath never so welcome.

  “What are you doing here?” I rasped.

  “Garv say to Otto: Please, come to me! Vac-ate-ton! I see you soon.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I didn’t mean for you to come on vacation. . . . Okay, look, KGB on toilet,” I whispered, nodding toward the bathroom. “Angie, she’s in trouble. Angie not looking, Otto. We must go help Angie.”

  Otto studied me a moment. “Garv, I dunno.” He studied me for another moment. “Lookink like circus.”

  “What?”

  He pointed at my face. “Circus man, lips to red, poke a darts, pants much big . . . amusink very much.”

  I paused. Circus man, red lips, polka dots, big pants . . .

  I glanced at my visage in the mirror over the dresser. Red ink was smeared all around my lips, and there was a smudge of it on the end of my nose. My frantic tussle with the pillow had broken the shackles of my styling gel—my hair was standing straight up. And I was wearing baggy red sweats. Sure enough, I looked like a clown. And felt like a bozo.

  “There was a pen, with red ink—oh, never mind. Otto, get me out of this!”

  I’ll never say another deprecating thing about the little imp. Well, I will, but I’ll feel an eentsy weentsy bit guilty every time.

  Otto went into action. Cutting off the curtain pull strings, he made several big loops out of them. Tying one end carefully to the bathroom doorknob, he tied the other end to the closet doorknob opposite. He put a coat hanger between the multiple strands and turned the hanger until the cords doubled up on themselves and twanged to the touch. Then he used a handkerchief to tie the hanger to the back of a chair so the cord wouldn’t unwind.

  Next Otto tiptoed back over to examine my handcuffs. Stroking his pointy beard, he considered the problem from all angles: my wrist, the chain, the locks, the bedstead.

  “Hurry!”

  “Eetz interesting, eh?” He tapped the cuff on my wrist. “Much very Moscova Police. Same. Gear, shackle, spring. Key, eet push on spring, gear turn, shackle—”

  “Hurry!”

  “Yes, of course.” Otto took out his penknife, opened a blade, but decided it was too thick. He thought a moment, then sliced the collar off his shirt. “Ahoyatilne!”

  The toilet flushed.

  Otto pulled the white plastic insert out of his shirt collar and fed it gently into the cuff where the male part joined the female part. His tongue peeked out between stained teeth.

  Water began to run in the bathroom sink.

  Then the water in the bathroom shut off, the vent fan stopped, and a hand landed heavily on the bathroom doorknob. “What the—”

  “Eh?” The cuff slipped open. “Eetz looking!”

  “Carson!” Walker yelled, the bathroom door convulsing. “Carson!”

  I slapped Otto on the back. “Ve go!”

  When my bare feet hit the gravel, I turned back to the room for shoes but saw the bathroom door about to burst open. I stepped into the shoes nearest the door—Walker’s. They were about a size fourteen, and I had to clench my toes to keep them from falling off my feet.

  Otto stared, giggling. “Garv . . . Bozo shoes amusink.”

  “Hurry, you idiot!”

  We gathered up the plastic bags full of my valuable skins and shut the door on the growing racket in my room. Otto had a van out front.

  “We’ll take the Lincoln,” I said, opening the back door and shoving my bags in. “It’s faster than the van.” Otto shoved his bags in the opposite side and went toward the van.

  “Otto! This car!”

  “Yes, of course.” From the van, he heaved a large cooler toward the Lincoln.

  “Otto, what the hell is that? Come on, hurry!” I could hear banging in the room. Those bathroom doors aren’t exactly solid oak.

  He approached the trunk and I quickly popped open the dented lid.

  “I dunno.” Otto dropped it in the trunk, smiling. “You tell to Otto bring chest freezer.”

  I flipped the top of the cooler, and my jaw dropped.

  Dry-ice vapor cleared, and by the motel porch light I saw a fat beak.

  “Eetz good, eh?” Otto folded his arms. “Sneezy pizdyets.”

  Chapter 18

  The cops in the unmarked car across from the motel were sleeping. Can you believe it? Making small-town cops everywhere look bad. Of course, even if they had been awake, I think my ad hoc Clarabell disguise would have fooled them.

  Blasting east on Route 9, we made the New Hampshire border in six minutes ten seconds. But who’s counting?

  Beside me, I had an erratic Russian gnome. In the backseat, $50,000 worth of protected species’ pelts. The day wasn’t over yet, and I’d been shot at, had a boulder dropped on my car, been used by the police as bait, handcuffed to a bed, and effected an escape. My girlfriend was likely in mortal danger. Carnies had stolen my white crow, and there was probably a missing gorilla corpse out there somewhere. A mysterious guy named Jim Kim claimed he was trying to help me but wasn’t. The police and the NYSDEC claimed to be trying to help me but weren’t. My destiny was perched on the sharp edge of a job offer I was deathly afraid of accepting and deathly afraid of not accepting.

  And as if that weren’t enough, I had a frozen penguin in the trunk. His name was Reggie. RIP.

  Rural New Hampshire ghosted by in the periphery of my headlights, my eyes trained on the white line that would lead me to Angie.

  There was no sense asking Otto how he could possibly have misunderstood my instructions, if for no other reason than I was so happy he had.
>
  “Otto, where did you learn to open handcuffs?”

  Otto sighed heavily and flashed steel dental work. “Garv, many things Russia men must know. To live life, men must make smart.”

  “Thank you, Otto.”

  “Yes, of course. But tell to me, Garv. Where Yangie? Why we go?”

  “She went to Maine, to a place called Mallard Island. The men who stole from us, who attacked Angie and me? We followed them to Brattleboro. They tried to kill me today.”

  “Yob tvoyu mat!”

  “Now I think they’ve gone to Maine. To Mallard Island.”

  “Poshol v pizdu! Garv, men, ve maybe must killed. Eh?”

  “I’m hoping nothing bad has happened, Otto.”

  “But if men—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Hmm.”

  I looked over at him and saw a metallic glint, which I thought was from his steel-capped teeth. But in his hand was a large, nickel-plated revolver. “Garv, men, ve maybe must killed.”

  I practically ran off the road.

  “Poshol ty na khuy!” Now he had me doing it. “What the hell is that?”

  “Eetz important. Otto travel, he takes beeg gun. Mother tell to me: Otto, you to take beeg gun, to you always make safe.”

  “Eetz dangerous, and probably very illegal.”

  He gave me a withering look. “Vhat illegal when bad men to Yangie!”

  “I told you, don’t go there. . . .”

  He made the gun disappear. “Make to Yangie destination very fast.”

  I seem to remember promising myself just the night before that I was going to get myself a big Dirty Harry gun. Yet the sight of that revolver brought me anything but peace of mind. If anything had happened to Angie, I would kill them, given the chance. And Otto’s mother’s gun suddenly made that possible. I’d fired a gun once or twice, knew how to work one, but didn’t own one and didn’t much care for them. Chalk that up to being a New Yorker. The less you see of guns in Manhattan, the better.

  My vision swam. I felt sick. The pedal went closer to the floor.

  I felt better once I saw a sign for Concord. I knew this route. I’d driven it a number of times on my taxidermy safaris. At Concord, I could pick up I-93, to I-393, cross the Merrimack, and beeline on Route 4 to Portsmouth and I-95. I looked down at the speedometer and edged the needle up past eighty-five. I figured I might make it in three hours.