Chapter 129: What Goes Around
…and pulled, and Scooter practically sailed across the lobby. Overflowing with bonhomie, Sweetums had clapped him on the back just as Kermit opened the door, and Scooter staggered and windmilled his arms to keep from crashing into the far wall. Gerry earned his paycheck that day by catching the startled once-upon-a-time gofer as he hurtled past. Oblivious to it all, Sweetums had ducked under the eight-and-a-half-foot doorframe and clumped noisily into the building, his huge feet slapping the floor like thunder.
“Oh, hi Sweetums,” Kermit said politely, looking worriedly at Scooter out of the corner of his eye. Scooter seemed ambulatory, but he had a rattled look and he was so pale his bright red hair shone like a beacon in the fog. “How, um, nice of you to drop in.” He cast another concerned look at his assistant. “Are you okay, Scooter?”
Scooter had shaken off the beaver’s helping hands and now came up to Kermit, standing close enough that Kermit noticed something off. He could practically feel the nervous energy radiating off of his assistant’s frame.
“Yeah,” Scooter said, and there was a false brightness and a brittle edge to his voice that made Kermit do a careful double-take. “Sweetums came to help me with the package I was delivering.”
The package…oh, sheesh! The film. Scooter was trying to tell him that something had happened to the film! He turned and opened his mouth to blurt out a question but something in Scooter’s face—something desperate—caused him not to. He looked at Scooter, his bulbous eyes fastened on his assistant’s tense ones, and phrased his next words carefully.
“That was, um, nice of him,” Kermit said, his eyes sliding subtly toward the big ogre. Sweetums stood there beaming at the two of them.
“Yes,” Scooter said carefully. “It certainly was nice of someone to hire him to make sure the film got taken care of today.”
Kermit stiffened, and Scooter relaxed. Message delivered, with Sweetums none the wiser.
“Good thing you were there, Sweetums,” said Kermit, and saw Scooter nod microscopically. “Why, I don’t know what would have happened to Scooter and the film if you hadn’t shown up.”
“Yeah,” said Sweetums. He had pulled over one of the sturdy aluminum and wood chairs from the vestibule and sat down on it. It was sturdy, but groaned beneath the ogre’s weight. “Ah don’t know who was gonna bother him, but they hired me to make sure he got taken care of proper.” Unable to help himself, Scooter shuddered.
Kermit put his hand out and squeezed Scooter’s arm. It felt like iron, so tense was the young man, and Kermit steered him casually toward the kitchenette.
“Um, we’re going to go get a lemonade,” Kermit said over his shoulder. “In the, er, kitchen. You want one, Sweetums?”
“Sure!” the big fellow boomed, and made as if to stand, but Kermit waved him back down. “I’ll get it,” Kermit said. “I’ve got plenty of quarters. Take a load off for a minute—okay?—while I get you and Scooter a drink.” Carefully, as quickly as he dared, Kermit steered Scooter down the hallway and into the kitchen. As soon as they cleared the doorway, Scooter leaned back against the wall and sank halfway down, taking deep breaths and shivering much as Kermit had done upon awakening after his time in the freezer. Kermit knelt beside him worriedly, but Scooter tried to wave him away.
“I’m fine,” Scooter insisted, but Kermit checked him over anyway and Scooter was too shaken to do more than protest. “I’m…not hurt,” the young man gasped, irritated and embarrassed by his unsteady limbs. He tried to stand upright, and Kermit helped him up.
“What happened,” Kermit whispered. “Do you know—?”
“I only know that Sweetums was hired by some…some guy to come and take care of the package.” He swallowed. “And me. Me and the package,” he admitted, feeling ill.
Kermit opened his mouth, but at that moment, Sweetums's voice boomed, loud even though he was down the hall.
“Do they have pink?”
Kermit looked torn, but Scooter waved him off and the amphibian poked his head cautiously out the doorway.
“What was that, Sweetums?”
“Ah said, ‘Do they have pink?’ You know, pink lemonade?”
“Oh,” said Kermit, then, “Oh! Um, let me check." He dashed over and looked at the machine, but they only had yellow lemonade. He trotted back to the doorway. “They don’t have pink lemonade,” he said. “They just have the, uh, regular kind.”
“Do they have Grape Nehi?” Sweetums asked.
“I’ll, um, go see,” said Kermit, his mind racing. He wanted to talk to Scooter—he needed to talk to Scooter to find out what had happened and what Sweetums’ role in it had been. But he didn’t want the ogre to realize that he might not have completed his task as assigned. Kermit didn’t think Sweetums would hurt him or Scooter, but monsters sometimes had a funny sense of honor. In his early days of show business, he himself had been devoured and, er, expelled more than once. Although there had been no lasting damage, it was not an experience he cared to ever repeat. Ever. He gave an involuntary shiver.
They would just have to talk here in the kitchen on the sly, appeasing the giant monster—or wait. Kermit looked worriedly over his shoulder at Scooter but found the young man standing under his own power, and his face did not look so pale and blotchy. He nodded at his boss, looking sheepish at his show of nerves, and motioned Kermit over toward him.
“The film is okay,” said Scooter, sotto voce. “I should have led off with that.”
“You’re okay,” said Kermit. “That’s what matters.”
“Gee, Boss…” Scooter began, suddenly uncomfortably, but Kermit took a lightning-quick assessment of what would dispel his embarrassment and discomfiture fastest and reached out to pat Scooter on the head and tousle his hair in the most patronizing way possible.
“Good thing you’re too small to be appetizing,” said Kermit, grinning.
“Oh yeah?” Scooter fired back, outraged at being patted on the head by Kermit who knew he hated it. “Well—look who’s talking! I can see why they tried to make a TV dinner out of you!” Furiously, Scooter smoothed back his wayward curls.
“Ouch!” said Kermit. “Touché.” Eventually, Scooter’s glare faded and his mouth began to twitch until they were standing there grinning at each other. You don’t work with someone as long as they had worked together without knowing how to tweak them—and good.
“So, what are we going to do about, um,--“ Scooter jerked his thumb at the doorway.
“Get him a lemonade, I guess,” said Kermit. “We’ll talk later.”
Two soft hands covered his eyes playfully.
“Guess who?” said a voice near his ear.
“Audrey Tautou?” Ed said dryly. Autumn let out an indignant “Oh” of sound and nipped his ear. “At least you shaved,” she murmured. Ed just laughed and reached to pull out her chair.
“Did you order?” Autumn asked.
“Just a soda,” he said, touching the stem of his glass. “I was waiting for you and enjoying the music.” In the corner, a string quartet played quietly. Autumn sat down and picked up the menu, looking around the room with interest. Suddenly, her hand was on his arm, her voice hushed with suppressed excitement.
“Ed—Ed, darling—do you know who’s over in the corner table?”
“Audrey Tautou?” he asked, and could almost feel the heat of Autumn’s scowl.
“Just for that, I might not tell you,” she muttered, snapping the menu open.
Ed reached over and patted her slim back soothingly, but wisely said nothing further. After a moment, she relented and put her hand back on his arm again.
“Howard Tubman is over at the far corner table,” she murmured, keeping her gaze carefully averted. Polite people did not stare at the stars or socialites who came to dine at this tony restaurant.
“Howard Tubman? I thought he was in California. Didn’t he just do the choreography for Kermit’s Christmas show in Vegas?”
“He did indeed,” Autumn said. “I wonder what—oh! Oh my stars, Edward, darling—I can’t believe it. It’s her.” Her voice was breathless and very fast.
“Her who?” her companion asked, not quite tracking what she said. “It’s Miss Piggy,” said Autumn, her low voice infused with excitement. “She just came through the door.”
It took an iron will for Ed not to turn in that direction, but he gripped the bat-shaped head of his cane convulsively and her the polite and interested rustle and stir that meant that someone notable had come into the room.
“Here?” he asked. “Miss Piggy is here?”
“In the flesh, and wearing the most delicious hat I’ve ever seen,” Autumn said. “And she’s joining Howard, who looks very dapper,” she added, “but I don’t think I—oh! Oh! Ed, Sweetie, it’s—I think I know who the other man is now!”
For a moment, Ed was confused, not understanding. “What other man?” he said. “Is that reporter here?”
“What reporter?” Autumn said, then, “Oh. Oh, no. Not him. The other man with Howard and Piggy is that fabulous designer we read about in that on-plane magazine. His name is Thoreau and he does a lot of Piggy’s gowns.”
Ed was thoughtful for a moment, thinking. “Is this the fellow who is launching a new ready-to-wear line this spring?”
Autumn turned and stared at him. “You never cease to amaze me,” she said.
Ed flushed. “What?” he muttered. “I keep up with the news. I’m fashionable.”
“You are, my dear,” said Autumn, and patted his knee. “And you look very dapper today, too.” Ed made a face, certain she was just humoring him. He didn’t want to be humored. He wanted very much to be introduced, but he was too polite to bother a big star like Piggy in a public place. He steeled his resolve and remained composed.
“Do you suppose they are here to see Piggy on Broadway?” he asked.
“If you could come—wouldn’t you?” August asked.
“I did come,” Ed said simply. “Who wouldn’t?”
Piggy seemed to be chiding her companion, who took it gravely but did not seem cowed. He pulled out her chair for her and she sat, looking flushed and beautiful and mysterious behind the netting on her hat. Quietly, managing not to stare, Autumn told her companion what she observed.
“They seemed to have finished dessert,” she concluded sadly. “I suppose they’ll leave in a moment or two.” Her voice was wistful.
The waiter came and took their order, but Autumn had no idea what she’d ordered until the food arrived, so thrilled and distracted were they. As predicted, there was a bustle and a shuffle at the table on the far end of the room. Howard stood and held Piggy’s chair. She stood up and took his arm fondly. A ripple of excitement went through the dining crowd, but she did not acknowledge it in any way. Thoreau stood, tall and slender and elegantly attired, and Piggy took his arm as well. The ripple intensified, then swelled briefly as they walked past the other diners toward the door.
Listening to Autumn, Ed heard their approach. He smelled an intoxicating perfume, and waited, breathless, until they were past to turn to Autumn…but they did not move past. The hushed and mostly obedient crowd all but gasped, and Ed felt the force of someone’s gaze fall in his direction. Beneath the table, Autumn was all but cutting off the circulation in his knee from her excited grip.
“Pardonez-moi, sil vous plait,” said a sultry, feminine voice. “Haven’t we met before?”
The room was full of people who had almost met Miss Piggy before, though none would have dared approach her, but she was stopping at their table, talking to them.
Ed came to his feet smoothly and found his voice, he knew not how.
“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure,” he managed. “Although I am a huge fan of your work, Miss Piggy.” He managed a Miss-Manners-perfect introduction of himself and Autumn, and Piggy introduced her friends in turn. He felt his palm pressed by Howard, then Thoreau’s strong grip and finally, the gossamer weight of her satin-gloved hand on his.
“Vous are too kind,” Piggy murmured, and her voice was as intimate as a hand on your face. Ed was almost beginning to feel sorry for Kermit—having to stand up against this much presence. Almost. “But Moi is certain I’ve seen you both—oh.” Her voice caught breathily and the room almost vibrated with the groans of the men in the room. Autumn watched Howard and Thoreau exchange smug looks, used to the havoc that Piggy could wreak without even trying. “Excuse me, but…do you have a cane with a bat’s head—?“
The cane was proffered wordlessly, and he heard Howard say softly. “Oh! They’re the ones who—“
Later, Autumn would tell Ed that Piggy touched Howard’s wrist and he desisted immediately
“Vous were kind to…um, intervene on our behalf on Christmas day at the Palace,” Piggy said. “Someone was, er,…”
“Yes,” said Autumn, saving Piggy the necessity of explanation. “We noticed someone, um,…”
“Yes,” said Piggy. “You were so nice to, um, step in….”
“Our pleasure, I assure you,” Ed murmured.
They all smiled at each other, sharers of a secret.
“Do you live here in New York?” Piggy asked, deliberately changing the topic. While Ed tried to think how to parse the “you” in that question, Autumn stepped in with aplomb.
“I’m afraid we came to town to see your Broadway show,” she offered.
Piggy's delight was as genuine as a child’s.
“Really?” she asked, her mouth dropping open and her blue eyes widening. She fluttered those thick, dark eyelashes while a blush graced her cheeks and Autumn had a split-second of extreme gratefulness that Ed could not see this devastating example of charm. If he had, she might have had to pick him up off the floor.
Again, Autumn saw Howard and Thoreau exchange glances, captivated by Piggy’s astonishment.
“What are we, chopped liver?” Howard murmured sotto voce to Thoreau behind and slightly above Piggy’s head. Piggy pretended not to hear him.
“Vous must come backstage and see me after the show,” Piggy insisted. She dug in her fashionable purse. Had she been a little shorter herself, Autumn would have cheerfully mugged Miss Piggy for the dress, the shoes, the purse and that hat, but Autumn was built along more willowy lines, and she managed to simply enjoy the sight of Miss Piggy so exquisitely attired. Piggy produced a pen and a theater bill from her purse, then wrote a note on it in a loopy, feminine hand. “Show this to one of the ushers after the show,” she insisted. “You can come back and meet everyone.”
Dumbfounded, Ed started to speak, and finally made it on the second try.
“Thank you,” he said at last. “This is--you are too wonderful, Miss Piggy.”
Piggy gave a breathy little giggle. “Everyone says so,” she murmured, “so I suppose it must be true.”
While everyone smiled in amusement, she swept from the restaurant in style.
There was another observer in the room, but not where he could be seen. For most of the luncheon, a slight gentleman in a dark coat had sat at one of the more private tables for two along the far wall, looking balefully in the direction of Miss Piggy and her companions. Periodically, he would take a sip of his drink and mutter under his breath, but that seemed to be the extent of his threat—unless, of course, looks could actually kill. In that case, Piggy’s friends would have been dead, and she would have been alone and in danger. But Piggy was not alone. She was surrounded by friends, and surrounded by protectors even here. That stupid reporter was probably around here somewhere, too, hiding behind a potted plant.
He would just have to think of something else, something that didn’t depend on brute strength or chance opportunity. He just needed a better plan, and then all his planning, and all his dreaming would pay off. Piggy would be his. It was only a matter of time.
There wasn’t any more lemonade in the drink machine by the time Sweetums lumbered out. There were also no more candy bars, no pastries, no chips and no crackers. There was only a paltry line of gum and mints along the bottom, and only because they did not have the right kind of change. Kermit was out a considerable amount of petty cash, but he had not wanted Sweetums to feel any hunger pangs—any—while he was in the studio with them. Gerry and the other security guards had been visible, but had not hovered. Sweetums was, after all, one of their own, and they could not know what had happened outside the studio, so if Scooter and the Boss were acting a little tense, it was put down to fatigue and overwork. Kermit and Scooter, both fair to a fault, did not want any unwarranted suspicion to fall on Sweetums so kept their own council and did not elaborate.
“I think that was a stroke of brilliance,” Scooter said, ruefully. “Hiring Sweetums to help us here.”
“I’m just sorry you had a bad turn today.”
“I’m just glad the film is delivered.” He hesitated. “Um, boss, I know you don’t like the idea of transmitting the data electronically…” Here, Scooter stopped, expecting push-back, but he flashed a quick look at Kermit and saw him gritting his hard palate determinedly.
“I’m listening,” Kermit said, and Scooter brightened at once.
“Um, I’ve been looking at some new encryption programs that keep the data safe even if someone intercepts it.” He waited again, waited for Kermit to protest or complain, but his boss did neither. “The, um, guys doing the editing think it will work just fine, and they’re willing to decode on their end. They’re even willing to buy their half of the programs, because they can use it for other clients. So…?”
“So…do it,” said Kermit, rubbing his forehead with the back of his wrist. “I may not understand, but I trust you and I’m not willing to put you in danger again just so I can be a technophobe.”
At this, Scooter started to protest, but Kermit cut him off. “Go on home to Sara,” he said. “Do not think about work anymore today. Tomorrow we’re going to get dressed up and have fun at the Oscars and I’m going to see Piggy and we are not going to worry about anything else this weekend.”
“Okay, Chief,” said Scooter, smiling, but Kermit’s next words sobered him.
“Are you, um, are you going to tell Sara what happened?”
Scooter was quiet for a moment, then set his jaw and looked at Kermit. “Of course I’m going to tell her.”
Kermit nodded, but added nothing, and Scooter stepped toward him awkwardly.
“I—she loves me, and she deserves to know what happened,” he said, and would have said more, started to say more, but Kermit held up a slim green hand.
“Lecture duly noted, Scooter,” he said wearily. “Let me get through tomorrow and I’ll think about it, okay?”
Moishe dropped Piggy at the theater door and six eyes watched her anxiously in the door before the cabbie pulled out to take them back to their hotel. Piggy arrived to find several familiar faces waiting for her. One of them was more surprising than the others, and she stared up at Bobo in disbelief.
“Bobo?” she asked. “Is that you, or do all New York bears look alike?”
“It’s me all right, Miss Piggy,” Bobo said, fidgeting like an excited school-boy. “I just flew in. I’m gonna be working here! They want me to do security here at the theater! Idn’t that great?”
Piggy’s acting skill was tested, but she kept her expression mostly neutral.
“And when did Kermit dear send you up here to check on me?” she said coolly, but Bobo shook his head at once.
“It wadn’t him,” he said, eyes wide and guileless. “That Marty guy that does your agent stuff called me early this morning and said he wanted somebody on the ground here.”
Piggy took a deep breath, ready to throw a diva-worthy tantrum but somewhere between the intake of air and her shouting it at the open-faced bear in front of her, (who was proudly polishing his security nametag even as she watched), she calmed suddenly and became thoughtful. So Marty had sent a bodyguard. Well, sort of. And Kermit didn’t know anything about it. She was quiet a moment longer, twirling her ring on her finger. It was possible that Marty, um, knew—knew more than he had told her or guessed more than she had told him. Piggy’s expression became wary. Or…or, someone here might have ratted her out over the mugging incident. Despite the fact that Piggy knew—knew in her heart and in her soul that her attacker had not wanted to mug her—she had determinedly classified the incident in her mind as a mugging. Rory might have done it, Piggy thought, but he…he wouldn’t. And he was the only one who really knew what had happened. So...who then? She looked up to find Harrison giving Bobo a suspicious once-over and blushed. Her co-star was really quite harmless as long as you kept him at arm’s length. Despite his protectiveness of her the other day, she doubted he would have called Marty.
Well, everybody knew Marty, so it was possible that almost anyone here could have told someone who knew someone who knew someone. Piggy shook her head. It didn’t matter. She didn’t know and couldn’t ask, so there was no point in making a fuss. Part of the diva code was only pitching a hissy fit if it got you what you wanted, so there was no sense in pitching one now. Besides…a nice thought occurred to her. A good thought. Kermit would like this.
She could call Kermit and tell him that silly old Marty had sent her a protector and guess who it was, and she knew without asking that she would hear relief in her husband’s voice. He didn’t know she might be in danger, but she was far away, and he worried about not being here. She could call Kermit and tell him that she felt safe and protected and watched over and that she would be safe and sound waiting until he could come himself. That explained what happened next.
Marty had been pretty straightforward with Bobo about Piggy’s likely reception of him, making it plain that Miss Piggy might not be happy to have someone hovering over her, so Bobo was standing at the moment in almost cringing apprehension about what she might say or do on first meeting. After that, well, she’d calm down some, but he was braced for stormy weather all the same. To his complete shock and surprise, Piggy walked up to him, took his hand like a lady and stretched up to give him an air kiss four inches from his muzzle.
“That was very sweet of Marty,” she said. “Moi will have to call and thank him.” And Bobo stood there in the hall with his mouth open and watched her walk to her dressing room.
“Well, I’ll be durned,” Bobo said. “I sure didn’t see that coming.”
Posts: 1108, Looks: 77,971 August 11, 2012 12:24
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