by Marco Ocram
LESSON TWENTY-ONE
‘Herbert.’
‘Yes, Marco?’
‘Is my writing getting better?’
‘No, Marco. You are still making far too many rudimentary mistakes.’
‘Such as, Herbert?’
‘Here, where you say ‘She collapsed down to the ground’ the words ‘down to the ground’ are superfluous—she could hardly collapse up to the ceiling. And here, where you say ‘It was a warm summer day in June’, the word summer is redundant—it could not be a warm winter day in June. Expunge the unessential.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In which the boys get a proper car for the job.
I tactfully started a new chapter, drawing the veil, as it were, over Como’s regrettable outburst. Como, meanwhile, had turned up the volume of his police walkie-talkie, clicked a few of its buttons, and placed the device on the armrest between us.
“Listen,” he said.
I listened.
There were all sorts of chatter, none of which I understood, but I feigned interest lest Como think me rude. After a few minutes, I heard the dispatcher telling someone to check a reported ten sixty two at an address that sounded like the Kelloggs’, following which someone else said ten four then ten seventeen then ten twenty-six then fourteen thirty, or maybe some other numbers altogether, but it was that kind of thing.
“See?” said Como.
I had no idea what any of them were talking about. Thankfully, he spelled it out.
“They’ve dispatched Fuego and Taft to investigate. They’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Chief McGee was here on his own account—strictly unofficial.”
I was learning that unofficial had a wide range of meanings where Como was concerned. I wondered if the readers would appreciate the nuanced echo of the very first page, where Como’s use of the word had led me to imagine he was a rogue cop. Quite how big a rogue I was still finding out.
“What are we going to do about it?”
“Nothing, yet. We’ll find out who’s been spying on the Kelloggs. Maybe they’ll have seen something suspicious.”
“How do we do that, Como?”
“We’ll make a list of all the taxidermists within fifty miles. One of them will have stuffed those bodies. Now let’s go before Fuego and Taft find us.”
Taking care to avoid the use of unnecessary superfluous redundant words, we returned to police HQ. I paced up and down not chain-smoking while Como methodically combed through periodicals such as The Clarkesville Taxidermist, Taxidermy Today, and North American Taxidermy News. At last, Como snatched a list from the printer.
“These are the suspects.”
I took the list from Como and scanned the names and addresses of the taxidermists he had identified.
“There are twenty-six people on this list, scattered over ten thousand square miles. How do we know where to focus?”
“We don’t. We’ll just have to start from the top and work down. The list’s in alphabetical order, so it’s as easy as ABC.”
“No way, Como, we’re not falling into that old trap.”
“What old trap?”
“The trap of working a list from A to Z. We all know the guilty one ends up being the last suspect on the list, and I don’t want my mold-breaking book to be marred by that horrendous cliché. We’ll work the list from Z to A, so we find the guilty one straight off.”
“Have it your way, Writer.”
We went out into the lot and picked up the replacement vehicle Como had been temporarily allocated—a red ’74 Ford Gran Torino with white ‘vector’ side darts, 5-slot mag wheels, un-tinted windows, and a ‘Huggy Bear’ doll hanging from the rear-view mirror. There was something familiar about the car, but I couldn’t place it. I raised the collar of my thick woolen cardigan against the cold of the evening and got into the passenger seat. Como fired the engine and radioed our call sign ‘Zebra three’ to let the dispatcher know we were on our way. I marveled at how my subconscious had picked a Zebra call sign that mirrored our Z-to-A search method, and wondered if my readers would be smart enough to appreciate the cleverness of it without me pointing it out.
The first taxidermist on the list, or, rather, the last, was Zaquette Zorab, whose small ad in the classified section of the Clarkesville County Gazette suggested she specialized in stuffing trophy fish for anglers—two for a thousand dollars, display cases extra. Como carped at this.
“I don’t mind working the list in reverse order, but someone who stuffs fish? That’s work for beginners—I stuffed three in the introductory practical class on my course. No way someone like that would be up to the job.”
“Ha! Exactly. That’s my point, Como—in books and films it’s always the person the cops least expect. If we follow your logic, we’ll fall right into that clichéd trap. We’ll end up investigating all the others only to find it’s her. I just know it. Do we want the readers tutting at the weary predictability of it all, or do we want them marveling at our originality?”
“What we want, Writer, is results.”
“Yes, well, the sooner you stop complaining and get us to Zorab’s the sooner we’ll get them.”
“What’s the address again?”
I read it off the sheet.
“Mason’s Ridge? That’s fifty miles away!”
With some relief on my part, Como engaged a reluctant gear and we set off, he continuing to cavil while I typed a paragraph of blatant padding about our journey. After clearing the sleepy suburbs, we pootled along the scenic two-laner that circled the southern flank of Mount Clarke before rising to the arid plateau to the south west. The contrast between the cacti and tumbleweed of our new surroundings, and the lush coastal vegetation we had left behind, was a salutary reminder of both the looming threat of global warming and my tendency to write unrealistic nonsense during the quieter moments in the narrative.
The fortunes of Mason’s Ridge had been in constant decline since the closure of the aluminium smelting plant that had once been the town’s largest employer and foremost example of inappropriate British English. The sidewalks of its run-down Main Street were strewn with garbage and peopled here and there by knots of idling ex-smelters.
Zorab’s place was a trailer in a rubbish-filled lot next to a wrecker’s yard, its frayed chain-link fence showing no sign of ever being polished. My Bronx mom would have stern words to say about Zaquette’s standards of housekeeping. A mean pit bull prowled the lot—it bounded over and leapt at the gate, growling and snapping to get at us.
“What now, Writer?”
“You mean the dog?”
“What else would I mean?”
“Don’t you have one of those things like a noose on a pole?”
“If I did, I would have used it by now—and I don’t mean on the dog.”
I ignored his hurtful quip.
“I must say, Como, you seem lamentably ill-prepared. What if there had been an emergency—how would we get past the dog then?”
I regretted the question the moment I typed it. Como would probably say something about shooting the dog, and I’d have all the world’s animal welfare societies on my back. I held up a silencing hand to preempt any reply.
“Never mind. Do you watch The Dog Whisperer, Como?”
“Never heard of it.”
“It is a him. The Dog Whisperer has an innate understanding of the psychology of the canine class—he demonstrates in countless astounding episodes his power to quell the most vicious and unruly behavior. You need simply emulate his techniques to pacify the beast, and we can go about our business.”
“I ain’t emulating nothing, Writer. If you want to emulate yourself into trouble, that’s up to you, but I vote we call the local cops and get them out with the right kit.”
I pondered Como’s suggestion—very level-headed and pragmatic but hardly a plan to enliven the dozing reader. They’d be nodding off in hordes if we did things Como’s way and waited for
the Mason Ridge police to turn up. Besides, would Jackson Pollock wait for his local art-shop to deliver a special brush, when he’s all for thrashing his canvas in a frenzy of artistic expression? I think not.
“Very well, Como, if you do not feel up to the task, I will take it upon myself. The key is to personify calm assertion. I will back into the compound, thus allowing the dog to realize I am not about to attack. There is a rope by the door of the trailer—I will ease my way over there and form a leash with it. In the meantime, please remember the Dog Whisperer’s mantra—no touch, no talk and no eye contact. With the dog, obviously.”
I backed up to the gate and waited for the ensuing paroxysm of aggressive barking to die away.
About twenty minutes later, the paroxysm still showed no sign of abating—the dog was snapping at the gate like a crocodile. Concluding that we needed a Plan B, I rewound my memories of the Dog Whisperer episodes.
“Clearly the dog is nervous, Como. I remember now that in such cases it is important to reassure the animal by respecting dog etiquette. You will doubtless have seen how dogs stand and allow themselves to be sniffed. I will do the same. Here.”
Handing a skeptical Como my writer’s satchel, I got down on all fours and slowly moved my rear near to the fence that separated me from the enraged canine. To my surprise the aggressive barking morphed into a whimper more of excitement than of fear.
“See, Como, it is just a matter of psychology. Open the gate and I’ll back in.”
Como eased the mesh gate aside just enough for me to squeeze in backwards. I could hear the dog’s snuffles and feel its nose prodding inquisitively at my nether regions.
“What’s your plan now?”
It was a good question. For a moment I dithered about whether to ask myself what would the Dog Whisperer do? or what would Jackson Pollock do? The dog was more decisive—it mounted me and proceeded to hump with remarkable passion and energy. It felt like a jackhammer on my back.
“Don’t laugh—get it off me!”
Como was bent double.
“Writer, you sure got your dog psychology mixed up. Keep him busy while I get the rope. Don’t put him off his strokes.”
I clenched my jaw—and buttocks—and wished I’d had the forethought to raise the collar of my cardigan as some kind of prophylactic against the dog’s germ-laden breath and slobber, both of which were warming the back of my neck. I encouraged Como to be quick about his task.
“Christ, Como, are you making that rope?”
I heard his returning footfalls above the noise of the dog’s frenzied panting.
“I’ll say one thing—you sure have some balls.”
His words induced a glow of pride. I might be humiliated by an oversexed pit bull, but at least my resourcefulness and courage had gained Como’s respect.
“Thank you, Como, but if you could please hurry.”
“I was talking to the dog.”
Como hauled off the beast and tied it to a sturdy bench. I thanked him as he proffered my satchel.
“My pleasure, Writer. It ain’t every day you get to see dog psychology practiced by a master. You should do your own dog whisperer show. C’mon, let’s knock up Zorab.”
I dusted myself off in an attempt to patch up my threadbare dignity as Como rapped, knocked and rattled the door of the filthy trailer. Eventually his efforts yielded a result in the form of a coarsely voiced question, thus:
“Alright, alright. We’re coming. What’s the big fuss about?”
The door opened to a person between thirty and seventy holding a tumbler and blinking at both the harsh light and the contrasting forms of her unexpected visitors—one giant, dapper and authoritative, the other slender, disheveled and authorlike. Como flipped his badge.
“Zaquette Zorab?”
“Sure.”
“Can we ask you a few questions about taxidermy?”
“Sure, though I don’t do much of it these days.”
“Can we ask you inside?”
“Sure.”
We followed Zaquette into the gloom of her trailer, Como stooping in the limited headroom.
“Want one?” She gesticulated with the tumbler.
“No thank you, Ma’am, we’re on duty.”
“Suit yourself. Take a seat.”
We made space between old magazines, discarded wrappers and other detritus and perched on the edge of a filthy couch.
“We understand, Ma’am, that you practice taxidermy. Can you tell me whether you have taken on any unusual commissions recently?”
“Did. Did practice it. Don’t no more. Don’t see too good. Besides, I got nerve trouble.”
She held out a hand Saint Vitus himself might have envied, her fingers waving like the tentacles of a hungry polyp.
“I can see that might be a handicap,” acknowledged Como.
“Yes, but you’d be a demon on air piano,” I added, to show there was a bright side.
Ignoring the bright side, Como asked if we could see an example of her most recent work.
“Sure. Help yourself. It’s in there.”
We followed the direction vaguely indicated by her wobbling arm, and entered a room that was part office, part workshop, part study, and part bottle-storage depot. We had to burrow through several years’ junk before we found any evidence of actual taxidermy, namely a medium-sized mirror carp that looked like it had been stuffed as a communal exercise in a kindergarten class. I stared at its mournful eyes, at least one of which had been sewn in the wrong place.
“We’re wasting our time here,” Como announced, overlooking the twelve hundred words I’d invented with very little help from him. “Let’s go.”
We thanked Zaquette for her cooperation and made our excuses. Como released the pit bull after I’d sought sanctuary beyond the fence. It stared at me with eyes that seemed to ask Don’t you love me anymore? as I got into the car.
“OK, Writer. What was all that about? You said we’d do the list from Z to A because the last person on it would be our man.”
“Or woman, Como—we might be writing things off the top of our head, but we must still take care with our gender balance.”
“Man, woman, what difference does it make? Half the day’s gone and we’re nowhere.”
I pondered Como’s prosaic complaint. It seemed to me that the challenge of breaking the mold of literature was horribly compounded by the innate conservatism of characters, who seemed to need a reason for everything. It was alright for Jackson Pollock—he didn’t have to explain his paintings as he went along. I thought of an excuse.
“Hardly nowhere, Como—we have eliminated at least one red herring. Besides, when I said the last person on the list would be our man, or person, I was speaking figuratively. I didn’t mean the actual last person—that would be as ridiculous as making it the very first person—I just meant it would be someone near the end of the list.”
“You better be right, Writer. I’ve got a shit load of other work back at HQ.”
“Time will tell, Como, so let’s not waste any more of it moaning about our lot.” I retrieved the list from the glove compartment. “Yuri Yousef’s next.”
“Where does he live?”
“Barton Hills.”
“Barton Hills? That’s fifty miles the other side of Clarkesville!”
“Christ, Como, don’t blame me.”
“Don’t blame you? You’re the writer, Writer. You’re the one making up this shit.”
“Yes, well, but which of us compiled the list? Huh?”
I didn’t quite catch Como’s response, as it was muttered through lips preoccupied with the production of a petulant pout. He slammed the car into gear, and with a screech of tortured rubber we were off.
With another screech of tortured rubber, we lurched to a stop two hours later next to a sign welcoming us to the Barton Hills Craft Village, Motel and Diner, a hideously tacky development on the site of an abandoned self-sto
rage facility. The old lockups had been converted into units in which the artistic members of the Barton Hills community made and purveyed a variety of quaint goods to sell to tourists with time and money on their hands. We looked up the location of Yousef’s unit—Pets N Stuff—on a board showing the layout of the site, then found the unit itself sandwiched between one selling cookies shaped and decorated to resemble famous religious figures, and another selling patio ornaments made from old beer cans. Yousef’s window display displayed a narrow range of unconvincingly stuffed creatures of the pet class. There was a cat with a flattened face and kinked tail, a spherical gerbil with no visible limbs, a hamster whose cheeks were stuffed more realistically than its trunk; the only exhibit with a remotely convincing body-shape was a tortoise. The glass door was locked. A yellowing hand-written note taped inside said Closed Until Further Notice.
Como looked at me. Although he voiced no words, I knew exactly what was in his mind and answered accordingly.
“Okay, okay—stay cool. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.”
We got the simple explanation from the neighboring stallholder, who furnished it while decorating a cookie of Pope Pious the Tenth …
“He’s in the can. Got twelve months. Tax fraud. Can you believe it? A nice regular guy. You work all day in this place, and you can barely pay the rent and some asshole from the IRS starts poking his big nose in. Jeez.”
“Thank you, Sister—you’ve been most helpful.” We put ten dollars in the nun’s mite box and wandered outside where I tried to forestall the tsunami of criticism soon to be swamping me from Como’s direction.
“Before you say it, Como, I know, I know.”
“You know? Saying you know doesn’t change things, Writer.”
“Yes, but—you can’t blame me for him being in prison, Como. I admit I’m the writer, but I’m not the police. I am quite happy to accept full responsibility for matters within my area of expertise—punctuation, word choice, syntax and so on—but I fail to see how I can be responsible for the imprisonment of a minor character.”
I said all that to Como’s back as I followed him to the car. We buckled in in a tense silence which Como maintained while I retrieved and unfolded the list. I read out the third name from the bottom.
