Stuffed

by Brian M. Wiprud

  Chapter 21

  I half expected Jim Kim to show up at any turn. At the dry-ice distributor in Massachusetts (Reggie needed some new nesting material), at the Denny’s we ate at in Connecticut, at the Westchester gas station, even at the tollbooths for the Triborough Bridge. That’s right, Frank Franks got us out of there, bless his soul. Best $500 I ever spent. Well, next to the $500 I spent for a standing Kodiak bear. I’ve made over ten grand on that thing in rentals.

  But no Kim. And why should I see him? The crow and I had parted ways, once and for all. Not that I didn’t continue to have nightmares about Flip. Getting over that was just a matter of time, I hoped. Shelling out $500 to a barrister is one thing, but quite another to a shrink.

  Once home, I quickly set Otto about the task of cleaning all the pelts, the penguins, and generally getting the stock back in order. We wanted to get back to normal at chez Carson ASAP. No more episodes.

  The job thing was still out there, and I knew I only had days to make a decision. But like an old cat with a new toy, I chose to ignore it no matter how much it was jiggled in front of my face. I’d been through too much over the last days to even contemplate more stress.

  Angie and I had yet to resume our conversation from the hospital room. But it was still out there, the specter of self-recrimination dogging our every conversation.

  On the second morning home, Angie went up to see Van Putin with boxes of her best jewelry. Meanwhile, I was cleaning receipts out of my wallet from our little murder tour of Vermont and Maine, trying to figure out if I could deduct any of it on my taxes, when I came upon Pete’s folded piece of paper, the MOOSE HEAD 4 SALE ad. Believe it or not, so much had happened that I’d forgotten all about it. I wondered if that woman was awake yet. I dialed, with no little trepidation.

  “’lo?”

  “Yes, I’m calling about the moose head. The fifty-dollar moose head?”

  “Let’s see . . .”

  “The fifty-dollar moose head? Do you still have it?”

  “Can you come get it now?”

  “Yes, yes . . . you live on Dewberry Road. And I know by the area code you live in Connecticut. But what town do you live in?”

  “Connecticut? Oh . . . Greenwich.”

  Now we were getting somewhere. Greenwich is close to New York. Well, a lot closer than Brattleboro, that’s for sure. “And the address?”

  “What?”

  “Your address?”

  “Bring cash.”

  “Of course, five tens, two twenties and a ten, ten fives, fifty ones—however you want it. Give me your address on Dewberry Road and I’ll come give you the money and take that nasty moose head away. What’s your address?”

  “Two twenty ten.”

  “Two twenty ten, got it. I’ll come right up. See you soon.”

  I hung up.

  Wait a sec . . . was she just parroting back to me what I said? When I said I’d pay her two twenties and a ten?

  I tried calling her back. Busy. Ten minutes later, after some serious pacing? Still busy.

  I called Dudley.

  “Gawth, you ol’ ragpicker!”

  “Mind if I come over this afternoon and bring you a specimen for mounting? I think you’ll be surprised.”

  “By all means. I was going to call you because—”

  “Sorry to interrupt, Dudley, but I’m in a hurry. Can we talk this afternoon?”

  “Why, certainly, I—”

  “You online?”

  “As a matter of fact—”

  “Could you do an address search for me?”

  “Gawth, when are you gonna get yourself on the Web? It’s absolutely atrocious that you—”

  “Please, save the lecture for this afternoon? The address is two twenty ten Dewberry Road, Greenwich, Connecticut.”

  I heard him loose a heavy sigh, followed by the clack of his keyboard.

  “No such address. There’s not even a Dewberry Road in Greenwich. Let me try a few variations. . . .”

  I waited a few moments and heard him grunt.

  “No such address.”

  “Rats!” I hit the table with my fist. “Okay, thanks. See you this afternoon.”

  I hung up.

  I had an appointment with the body shop anyway, so I dropped the Lincoln off to get the trunk fixed. When I got back home, I tried the moose-head lady again and the number was still busy, so I set about taking Reggie out of the deep freeze and wrapping the penguin in newspaper. I paid particular attention to the sharp-edged beak and webbed feet, the former turbaned in about a half roll of toilet paper, the latter ensconced in bubble wrap. You’d be surprised how delicate the beak and toenails on a penguin can be once they’re dead. In life they scramble all over the place, pecking and clawing without a thought. But Dudley would strengthen them up during the mounting using BeakRok and PoxieNail. In the meantime, I bedded ol’ Reggie down in a big Styrofoam cooler full of peanuts, strapped him onto a hand truck, and headed out. Time to deliver the specimen to my friend Dudley.

  He’d be beside himself. Puffins were in his repertoire, but I knew he was keen to try his hand at their larger cousin. He only collected specimens he mounted himself and did this as a favor now and again. He lives due south from our abode in an old carriage house near Canal Street. The downstairs is still barnlike, and stuffed with electronics. That’s how he pays the bills, usually with some high-end, high-tech man-toys, the kind you can’t even find in Schlemock and Hammer catalogs. Ever see a golf putter with a GPS guidance system built into it? A cell phone that’s also a Taser? Pocket laser teeth whitener? Of course you haven’t. You’re not a billionaire, and even if you are, you need a referral. Some of this stuff isn’t entirely legal.

  Anyway, spring was much farther along in New York than up in Vermont, so I decided to walk, wheeling Reggie behind me. Trees were blooming, birds were chirping everywhere, and it was warm and sunny. There’s a special sort of bonhomie among New Yorkers on these spring days. We’d toughed out another New York winter. Only we can truly appreciate days like this, the ones before the sweltering heat. I know, it’s kinda sick, but New Yorkers are honestly proud of being long-suffering about certain things. Even elitist about it. Me included. So sometimes as we pass each other on gorgeous spring or fall days, we share a secret, snobby moment.

  Dudley lives on a little angled street near some car-stereo shops, and I knocked on the door set into the barn doors of his carriage house. I was buzzed in almost immediately.

  He wasn’t downstairs, so I climbed the wooden steps up to his garret, the hand cart clunking its way up behind me. The bird didn’t weigh much, but the ice did.

  Dudley was at his rolltop desk, leaning back in a Windsor chair. This was his usual position for my entry, and I was convinced that he did, indeed, strike this as a pose. Why? I don’t know. Maybe because when he’s at his desk he’s completely surrounded by his collection of birds, basking in their glory. The walls were lined with a high shelf displaying literally hundreds of birds. Many, like his electronics, were illegal, though I know he came by them more or less legitimately. His network of fellow bird taxidermists revere these creatures and trade specimens found dead. Dudley knows the maintenance staff at a dozen of New York’s tallest skyscrapers. When songbirds migrate, they sometimes get confused by the shiny buildings and smack into them, falling onto a sidewalk or ledge.

  “Gawth, you ol’ ragpicker!” Dudley slapped his knees and smiled broadly. “My, my—you have been through the mill!”

  Dudley is definitely the sort of man who is very aware of his appearance, even if it’s always the same. The uniform is khaki trousers, khaki shirt, red suspenders, and an open brown vest. He’s thick, with oversize features, and brown. I know he sees himself as some kind of transplanted southern gentry, or the Mark Twain of Canal Street perhaps. But to me he looks like Deputy Dawg.

  He held his hands up to my face, looking me over. I never fail to notice that his fingernails are always the picture of perfection. Possibly be
cause he’s a tactilaphobe and refuses to shake hands or touch anyone—or most things that other people have touched.

  “Yeah, well, there have been a few bumps and scrapes. My face is still peeling a little from some burns.”

  “Hmm.” He gripped his chin, his gaze drifting down to the package on my hand truck. “I look forward to hearing all about it. What have you got there?”

  “See if you can guess.” I grinned.

  “I will not! You open that immediately, y’hear?”

  So I gleefully opened the cooler, slipped the toilet paper off the beak, and folded the newspaper back from the face.

  “You rascal! Spheniscus magellanicus!” He stood, and I thought for a second he might slap my back or even shake my hand. “But . . .” He stamped his foot.

  “Problem?”

  “My deep freeze is full.” He looked genuinely pained. “A friend just brought me a baby ostrich.”

  “Who?”

  A familiar voice startled me from the other side of the room.

  “Waldo did.”

  He’d been sitting in a wing chair under an assortment of orioles, camouflaged against the leather and wainscoting in brown pants and brown Nehru jacket. He was stooped and lanky—his knees high in the air even when sitting. His head was completely bald—I don’t even think he had eyebrows or eyelashes. His brow was furrowed, his nose beaklike. Not a Klingon at all. Mad scientist? Maybe. The Nehru jacket was a definite warning sign.

  He unfolded and stood. Tall, all right, over six-six anyway, even stooped.

  “Did Waldo startle you?” It sounded like a threat. He was holding a crumpled brown paper sack. You’d think a guy like that would have a Twilight Zone lunch box, complete with a Rod Serling thermos for his cocoa.

  “Yeah, a little. I didn’t see you sitting there.” I stepped up and put out a hand. “Garth Carson.”

  He looked at my hand but didn’t bother to shake it. “I know who you are.”

  A tactilaphobe convention in town?

  I put my hand in my pocket. “What brings Waldo to town?”

  He and Dudley exchanged glances but said nothing. Well, this was a nice social event. Finally, Dudley evoked his southern charm.

  “Gawth, you siddown for a minute. You want something to drink? A pop or somethin’?”

  I thought about it and decided a beer—even at that early hour—was required to help navigate this situation. Dudley brought me one, some kind of rare microbrew. Tasted faintly of pumpkins. Why do some brewers have this compulsion to make beer taste like food?

  “So stop stalling, Dudley. You guys clearly have something you want to discuss.”

  Dudley eased back into his chair with a creak, sighing and glancing once again at Waldo.

  “Gawth, what happened up theyah in Maine?’

  “You know, like I told you on the phone. These idiots, these carnies, went nuts double-crossing and then killing one another as they tried to sell the white crow. Angie and I got caught up in the middle.”

  “Kinda skimpy on detail, ain’t it?”

  “That’s the short version, and to be honest, I’d rather not talk about it. Scared the bejesus outta me, if you must know.”

  “Mm hmm.” Dudley shifted in his chair and avoided my eyes.

  “Was he there?” Waldo boomed, clutching his lunch sack.

  I was getting weary of this guy Waldo’s eccentricities. I like strange people, as a rule. But I have a limit. I didn’t even look at him. “Who?”

  “You know who.” Boris Karloff would have been proud, and I was about to say so.

  “Flip, the Penguin Boy,” Dudley said softly.

  You could have shaken my blood with ice, added a dash of vermouth, and poured it in a chilled martini glass over an olive—and it would have been hot by comparison to what was coursing through my heart.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I growled, slugging back some pumpkin beer. “Yes, you obviously know he was there. So what about it?”

  Waldo was suddenly standing directly over me. He hissed, “Did he get it?”

  I jumped to my feet, finger inches from his beak. “Back off, Waldo! That’s it, Dudley, I’m outta here.” I began packing up Reggie.

  Waldo held out his lunch sack, slipped one bony hand in slowly. It didn’t contain a ham sandwich after all. He held up what looked like a doggie’s squeaky toy, a silly rubber penguin with the words Flip the Penguin Boy printed sloppily on its white belly.

  I recoiled. “What the hell is that?”

  His eyes bored into mine, and he gave the toy two squeezes. It squeaked, twice, like a mouse with whooping cough.

  Squeak-hee, squeak-hee.

  Believe it or not, this was scaring me. I didn’t let on.

  “Dudley, this guy is insane.”

  Waldo squeaked the toy again. “This is the only thing Flip fears.”

  “A doggie toy . . . This giant freak, this monster, this gorgon is afraid of that little rubber penguin?”

  “Take it,” Waldo commanded. “It may save your life.”

  Dudley interjected, thank God.

  “Waldo was sent that from an elderly blockhead named Fuzzy in Gibtown, Florida. That’s the town to which most freaks retire.”

  “A blockhead?” I winced. “Named Fuzzy?”

  “He drives nails up his nose. Or used to.”

  “Oh, well, then . . . if it’s from Fuzzy the blockhead in Freaksville, Florida, how could I possibly question the power of a kryptonite doggie toy from such a reliable source?”

  Waldo was still right in front of me, the stupid rubber penguin held out like he was offering me a silver bullet to dispatch the Wolfman.

  Dudley continued: “Apparently, these squeaky penguins were sold wherever Flip appeared, and he hated them. When he was a small child in the sideshow, gawkers use to hold out the toys and squeak them at him to try to make him move, to flap his flippers. He hated those squeaky toys and was traumatized by them. To this day, so they say, he’s deathly afraid of squeaky toys. This one in particular.”

  “Oh, so now I’m Buffy the Vampire Slayer?” I was fuming at the absurdity. “And instead of a nice sharp stick, a mallet, and a silver cross, I get to slay my monster with a squeaky doggie toy. Terrific.”

  Dudley cleared his throat. “Waldo, please leave us alone for a spell.”

  I heard Waldo make giant strides to the door, open it, and stomp down the steps. He gave the penguin a few squeaks along the way, probably just to piss me off.

  “I don’t like that guy.” I pointed at Dudley. “He can be weird if he wants, but he has to be civil or I’ll clock him one, so help me. I’ve had about all I’m going to take. From anybody!”

  That’s when Dudley put a hand on my shoulder. Took a second to register the import of that. I stopped fastening the cooler with the bungee cords and looked up at him.

  “Gawth, let me tell you a story. It’s one you need to hear.”

  He retook his seat and I took mine, still astounded that he’d touched me.

  “This ain’t somethin’ that’s easy to tell. Outlandish as it is, it’s what Waldo tells me he got through his connections. Flip the Penguin Boy isn’t like the rest of us.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You don’t say?”

  “What I meant was, beyond his obvious congenital disorders, he has certain talents that set him apart.”

  “I know.” I closed my eyes, trying not to visualize it.

  “You saw him do it?”

  “Yes. He sang just like Belle Beverly.”

  “Belle Beverly?”

  “Yep.”

  “Remarkable.” Dudley looked perplexed. “But that’s not the talent I was referring to. Supposedly, Flip has psychokinetic powers.”

  I made a face. “Waldo has been filling you with a load of bunk.”

  “Could be.” Dudley nodded. “But why would he come all the way here with the rubber penguin to do so?”

  “How did he know about my run-in with Flip, anyway? And even if F
lip is psychokinetic, what’s he care?”

  “Let us see if we can get to the bottom of that as well. Waldo hears things; he has connections throughout the carnival and sideshow community. Apparently, within that community, it has been widely held that Flip had real powers. Not hokum. As a community, they became wary of him. They honor and revere humbuggery—but fear the genuine. Flip became marginalized. But the sideshow pygmies stayed with him. They revered his mojo.”

  “Now, when you say powers, what do you mean? Bending spoons? Moving a marble across a floor by sheer will?”

  Dudley looked thoughtful. “He was most noted for an uncanny ability to throw his voice, sometimes over distances that appeared to defy physics as we understand them.”

  I reflected on my sideshow visit, how the little girl’s voice came from the trailer. But then Flip was at the top of the hill before me, with a boulder. And, of course, he had Tex convinced he was on the other side of the door when he was actually behind the curtain.

  Dudley continued: “What other powers he had I’m not entirely sure. Now, I know what you’re thinking. These carnies are just flying off the handle. Superstitious people. But they are also dyed-in-the-wool skeptics. But all this is beside the point.”

  “Fine.” I really didn’t want to continue. “So, please get to the point.”

  “Did you ever stop to wonder how and why he was mixed up in this caper? This Big Foot gaff stunt?”

  I shrugged. “I assumed even penguin boys are susceptible to avarice.”

  “Mm hmm. Could be. But what’s got Waldo and some others worried is that he was there for an entirely different purpose.”

  I rolled my hand in the air. “Dudley, please, just tell me.”

  “He was there for the kving-kie.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I shuddered. “He said that. But there was no wild cow around. I certainly didn’t have one and no idea why he thought I would have it.”

  Dudley’s eyes twinkled. “You know much about kving-kie?”

  “Just that it’s an extinct—or mythical—wild cow from Southeast Asia. That there are no preserved remains, no taxonomy.”

  “Mm hmm. Well, there’s a little more to it. This diminutive wild cow had horns. Horns that supposedly empowered the possessor with strong psychokinetic powers. Ancient Asian armies and warriors used to take them into battle, as the story goes. They were so prized that the animal became scarce and then extinct. The horns slowly dwindled in the melee of war until all had been trampled into battlefields. There were none left. Supposedly.”