Chapter 38: Dark men
Scribbler slumped into one of the pubs and sat at a stool at the far end of the bar. The waitress behind the counter took his muttered drink order without comment, but at least she did not offer the false cheeriness of some of the younger, more chirpy waitresses. The drink came and was almost immediately consumed. He raised one finger and the empty glass was replaced with a full one without comment. He was on his third when a conversation near the entrance caught his ear. Carefully, keeping his face averted, he leaned toward the familiar voices.
“You’re not going to disco tonight?” said a squeaky voice. “C’mon—we had a blast last night, right?”
Another voice responded. This one was gravelly and sounded more than a little down. “I don’t think so, Rizzo. I—I think I’m going to go watch some poker—maybe turn in early tonight.” There was a pregnant pause, and Scribbler knew without looking that some searching look was passing between the two speakers.
“Camilla’s not coming, huh?”
“What gave you that idea?” snapped the gravelly voice. “Can’t a guy just—oh, who am I kidding? She’s—she’s not going to come, said she had other plans. I don’t want to come and watch everybody else dance when I’ve been officially dumped.”
The raspy voice was subdued. “C’mon--what makes you think you’ve been dumped? I mean, she’s been mad at you before.”
“I don’t think she’s mad anymore. She…just doesn’t want to go out with me.”
“Oh, gee. I’m sorry, buddy. Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. She was...she was nice to me, Rizzo. She just won’t, um, go out with me anymore.”
“Aw, hey c’mon,” squeaked the first voice. “Buck up, won’t ya?”
There was a long pause, then the squeaky voice muttered, “Um, sorry. But look, she’ll come around eventually, don’t you think?”
“Hope so.” The voice did not sound hopeful.
“Sure you don’t want to come? It’s not a couples only sort of thing.”
“I know, but I don’t feel like being around happy couples all the same.”
“Maybe you should stick around with Kermit and the Missus—they’ve been wound pretty tight lately.”
“Rizzo!”
“Oh, hey—that’s not what I meant,” Rizzo cried indignantly. He was quiet a moment. “But since you brought it up, I—I think they’ve been better here, you know? A little less pressure, a little less scrutiny here. I haven’t seen Kermit this happy in a long time.”
“Good for them,” said Gonzo grumpily. “Everybody else’s relationship seems to be going right down the toilet.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Rizzo. “I’m finally coming out of my slump.”
There was a deep, heartfelt sigh, and Scribbler heard what sounded like someone thumping someone else companionably on the back.
“Don’t mind me,” said the second voice. “Just something I overheard. I need to keep my mind out of the gossip mill.”
“Yeah, it’s too little to be swimming in all that muck.” Rizzo chortled at his own joke.
“Go dancing already,” said the second voice. “Just ignore me. I’m just, I’m just kindof blue.”
Rizzo thought about it. He thought about saying it so much that his whiskers twitched, but in the end he restrained himself.
“Okay, champ. Suit yourself. Come if you change your mind, okay? We’ll be dancing the night away down the block.”
After the two figures had departed in opposite directions, Scribbler stood up. He pulled out his room key and pocketed it reluctantly. He had looked forward to running up a big bar tab on his employer, but decided in an instant that he didn’t want his whereabouts—or his alcohol consumption—pinned down at the moment. He dropped a large bill on the bar, slid off his stool and followed the two characters to the door, staring after them thoughtfully. There was a look on his face that was somehow scary and pleased. It had not faded by the time he started out the door.
Watching him go was another thoughtful figure—the waitress who had delivered the drinks. She didn’t know this man, but it had looked for a moment like he was following Gonzo, and she was fairly certain that he had been eavesdropping on his previous conversation with Rizzo. She took the money and processed the slip absently, but her mind was unquiet. She wished this fellow had put the bill on his room, but she thought she might get a bead on him if she tried. And Mabel intended to try.
Sal inserted the little cardkey into the slot and waited for the green light to come one. Johnny was jingling change in his pocket and humming a little—My Way, of course—while he waited for the door to open. When the green light came on, Sal pushed open the door and they walked into the room. The lights came on as his hand was reaching for the light switch, and Sal let out a gasp as he found himself suddenly thrust protectively behind Johnny’s impeccably tailored form. Cowering, Sal heard Johnny begin to let out a breath in relief, and dared look up at the dark-coated men who were making themselves at home in their room.
Even though the others were closer, the man at the far end of the room in the recliner was commanding all the attention. He was a dark man, not too tall and sturdily built, but his expensive clothes and neat, long-fingered hands said he was more than just a man of action. His eyes were dark and darker in a dark, well-tanned face, and he lounged in the big recliner, occasionally tamping a big cigar. Hey, thought Sal indignantly. This is a no-smoking room, but he was, fortunately, unable to get the thought out of his throat. Two others men played cards—rummy, not poker—on one of the big beds and they seemed to fill the room with the size of their shoulders. One of the man had his coat off, and a gun was holstered over his shoulder. A big gun. Sal wished his knees would stop trembling, but Johnny seemed unconcerned. He walked up to the man behind the desk and touched his own forehead in deference while Sal watched with his mouth hanging open. Carefully he shut it, because Johnny Fiama had opened his own mouth to speak.
“You honor me,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The man with the big cigar waved in around in the air, spreading nasty fumes and a lot of blue smoke.
“You are welcome, Johnny. We have watched with interest your career, and wish to applaud you on your contributions to family entertainment.”
Johnny looked pleased, and tried hard to look modest. “I do what I can.”
“And now I am doing what I can,” said the man with the cigar, and Sal felt an involuntary shiver go up his spine.
Johnny spread his hands, clearly puzzled. “What can I do for you?”
“You misunderstand me,” said the elegantly dressed man. “This lizard you work for—he’s a good sort, yeah?”
“Frog,” muttered Sal. No one even looked at him.
“Oh yeah,” said Johnny. “Couldn’t ask for a better guy.”
“Runs a tight business, yes?”
Johnny flicked a look at Sal. Sal shrugged. “Um, yeah—we’ll go with that,” muttered Johnny.
“It has come to my attention that someone harbors some ill will for your lizard friend.”
Sal fought the urge to gape, slapping a hand over his mouth to keep his jaw from dropping. Johnny registered surprise.
“How much ill will?” he asked. “What are we talking here?”
“Enough,” said the dark man. He tipped his cigar and blew smoke experimentally. “Enough to be bad for the business.”
Johnny was still, digesting this piece of information.
“And besides—I got grandkids. They love you guys. I can’t let someone bump off the head lizard.”
“Frog,” said Sal, a little louder this time.
“What can I do for you?” Johnny asked at last. He had clearly been shaken by the news.
“Stay close for a bit,” said the dark man quietly. “Watch him. Me—my boys, we’ll take care of everything else. It won’t take long. But, for a bit—just stay close to him, capiche?”
“Capiche,” said Johnny softly. He looked at Sal. “We gotta go stick close to Kermit.”
“Yeah, Kermit-that’s him,” said the dark man suddenly. “I couldn’t remember his name. Kermit the lizard.”
“Frog,” said Sal again. The dark eyes in the dark face swung to look at him at last. Sal thought he might faint.
“What was that?” His expression was mild, but Sal felt like he’d just been slammed into a wall.
Sal stood as straight and respectful as he could and tried vainly to still the trembling of his knees. “His name is Kermit the Frog. He’s a frog, not a…a lizard.”
The dark eyes widened in surprise and looked to Johnny for confirmation. “This is true? He’s a frog?”
Mutely, Johnny nodded.
The dark man leaned forward. Sal and Johnny sucked in their breath, but he merely placed a large, well-manicured hand on Sal’s shoulder and looked him in the eye.
“Thank you,” the man said soberly. “You saved me from looking stupid in front of my grandkids.”
Sal reckoned he started breathing again ten minutes after the men had left their hotel room. In that time, Johnny had fortified himself against likely possibilities. The two friends looked at each other.
“Let’s go,” said Johnny.
“Sure thing,” said Sal. They started out the door, but Sal stopped for a moment and looked up at his idol. “How come you pushed me outta the way when we came in?” he asked.
Johnny looked at him, then shrugged. “’Fraid you’d say something stupid?” he offered at last. But Sal wasn’t listening to what Johnny said. He was remembering the feel of Johnny’s arm, frantically pushing his head down and out of danger while the crooner got between him and whatever was in the room. Sal tried hard not to look grateful or sappy.
“That’s me,” said Sal amiably, his little black eyes shining with admiration. “Always saying something stupid.”
Johnny touched Sal’s shoulder lightly, then gave him a shove out the door. “Shake a leg, won’t you?” said the crooner impatiently. He was not acting impatient to cover his discomfiture—no siree, not Johnny Fiama. My hero, thought Sal, but he shook a leg anyway.
Even the last number and the standing applause with it had not managed to put Floyd Pepper in a mellow frame of mind. Lovingly, methodically, he was putting his bass to sleep in its case, wiping the polished wood reverently with a soft cloth. He muttered to himself irritably, his raspy voice making a low rumble in the sound-proofed music room. It was impossible to tell what he was saying, but the words woman-stealing, no-good and back-stabbing were discernable
Janice had gone to change, and Floyd had generously volunteered to tuck Janice’s guitar in as well. Gently, the bass player wiped the strets and the surface of the fine wood with a microfiber cloth, then Floyd laid the two-tone guitar carefully in its case. Seeing it there, beautiful and vulnerable, made Floyd pause in admiration. Janice had played the same guitar as long as he could remember, and the shine on the wood was testament to the loving care she had lavished on it over the years. Of course she took good care of it, his mind prompted. If you love something, you take care of it the way you ought to. He felt a sharp pang in the general vicinity of his left ventricle and his bushy eyebrows sagged.
Floyd had spent his whole life in laid-back mode. He had been the coolest of the cool, the hippest of the hip. He had prided himself on the way that nothing really got under his skin—things bothered him and he moved on, or around, or just backed up until all the shouting was over. But…but Floyd’s rumpled but unruffled veneer had taken quite a beating in the last year. There had been some creative disappointments, and the last few months he’d felt the increased tension among all the muppets as they’d suffered along with Kermit and Piggy. It hadn’t been a great year for the band, either. Janice had been filming, and the band had limped along without her on several occasions. They were, at least, putting down some electrifying tracks for the new movie, and Floyd brightened a little at that. And the show was getting them good reviews. He tried to feel cheerier, but was finally forced to concede that his turmoil was not professional in nature.
He…he felt like something was wrong in the personal department. He thought Janice might be…. Deliberately, Floyd shuddered away from the thought. How could he even think it? What on earth was the matter with him? But his face felt hot when he replayed the night’s show, and he had been positive—positive!—that Janice had been having a furtive, whispered conversation with her dance partner Clifford when he’d come backstage. But she had dragged him—not Clifford—backstage to see her new costume. And she had linked arms with him, her shining head leaning on his shoulder, as they had come from the stage. He could still feel the weight of her slim arm around his waist as they had made their way backstage, hear her low, sultry voice—
“Hey, Babe,” said Janice, touching his shoulder. “Ready to hit the disco?” Floyd started and straightened up abruptly, causing Janice to startle as well. They grabbed each others shoulders for balance, laughing in nervousness and surprise, but then Floyd stopped laughing. He looked at Janice’s serene and beautiful face, searching for something in her gaze. He seemed to find it, for he pulled Janice close, pressing her lithe body to his. Janice turned her face up to his like a flower seeking the sun, so she was just where she ought to be for Floyd to bend and cover her mouth with his.
“Hmmmm,” said Janice, and her slim arms twined around his neck while she returned his thorough kiss with gusto. She could feel some unquiet in his frame, sense his unhappiness without quite knowing the cause. One of her hands touched his face, and she ended the kiss gently.
“Hey, Babe,” she said again, but her voice was concerned. “You okay?”
Floyd was having trouble with his words. He made a couple of abortive attempts at saying something, anything, then leaned forward miserably, his forehead resting on Janice’s shoulder.
“Bad day,” Floyd muttered at last.
With a sudden rush of tenderness, Janice wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him close.
“Oh, like, Honey,” she said gently. “You should have said something. We don’t have to go to a stupid ol’ disco tonight.” She turned his face back up to hers. “Why don’t we shoo the boys out and call room service. Mabel says they have rully decent vegan stuff on the menu.” Floyd looked hopeful. “We could, like, rent a movie,” she wheedled.
“Or not,” said Floyd. His voice was more than usually raspy. Janice laughed and kissed him quick to soothe him, but her eyes were very warm.
“Or not,” she agreed. Firmly, she took his hand and led him away.
“Hey Piggy,” said Kermit. “Some of the gang are going dancing a a disco down the block.”
“They still have discos?” asked Piggy, hanging up her red satin dress.
“Apparently,” said Kermit dryly. “It’s a retro thing. Um, I heard the food’s friendly.”
“Just as long as it’s....”
“Not fresh.”
“...not fresh.”
They laughed together at the old joke. Piggy leaned on the makeup table, which was sturdy enough not to protest, and smiled at Kermit fondly.
“What about Robin?”
“Sound asleep. Rowlf’s staying in tonight, and he’s curled up on the end of the couch in our living room. So, you want to go dancing?”
“If vous want to,” she said, willing to be agreeable.
“Might be fun,” said Kermit. He struck a Saturday Night Fever dance pose, making Piggy giggle. “I’ll bet Thoreau could find me a white suit and a black shirt.”
“I’ll be Thoreau wore one, back in the day,” said Piggy, then giggled, but not before she looked around to make sure Thoreau wasn’t within earshot.
“So, you want to change or what?”
Piggy gave him a look and took off her silk dressing gown. “I can’t go in this,” she said, flashing some expensive lingerie.
“Well, you could,” said Kermit impudently, “but you’d probably get your dance card punched a lot.”
“My dance card is full, thank you,” Piggy sniffed, pulling on a periwinkle sweater that dipped rakishly off one shoulder. There were jet beads along the wide collar and around the hem, and they swung as though in an unseen breeze as she moved. Kermit was watching her with interest and it made her shy. She stepped behind the changing screen and stepped into a short black knit skirt. She emerged a moment later wearing one boot and one pump.
“Boots or heels?” she asked.
Kermit looked thoughtful.
“Turn around.”
Piggy complied. “Well?”
“Do it again,” said Kermit, his chin in his hand.
Once again, Piggy did a 360 and faced him.
“The boots?” she asked. “I think the heels may be too low.”
That hardly seemed likely, thought Kermit, who wondered how she walked in them at all.
“Um, one more time?”
Obediently, Piggy turned smartly on her heel and then completed the turn to face him once more. “Well?” she asked trustingly, blue eyes wide. “What do you think?”
“What I always think,” said Kermit. “Hubba hubba!”
“Oh, honestly!” growled Piggy. She reached for a shoe. And Kermit, who had experience in these matters, ran for the door. It had barely shut behind him when he heard two sharp thumps against the door behind his back, and Kermit smiled. Piggy certainly hadn’t mellowed much since their days at the Muppet Theater, but her aim certainly had. Of course, it had been some time since he’d been in anything but close range. He leaned against the door and waited for Piggy to finish dressing.
Like last night, there was an unfamiliar sound backstage. Kermit turned toward the noise, but instead of a blushing couple, the tall figure of Johnny Fiama and his shorter, hairier buddy Sal separated themselves from the gloom and came toward him.
“Hey there, Kermit,” said Johnny. He looked around, eyes flicking in all directions before settling on Kermit’s face.
“Hello, Johnny,” said Kermit. “Hey, Sal.”
“Hiya, Kermit,” said Sal. “Where’s Miss Piggy?”
Kermit grimaced and shrugged. “Picking a pair of shoes to wear,” said Kermit. Both of the bachelors made sympathetic noises. “I figured I ought to get out of the way.”
“Sure,” said Johnny. “You guys going out?”
“Yeah,” said Kermit, mystified by Johnny’s interest. He had never known Johnny to take much interest in his social life--or anyone else’s, for that matter. “We’re, um, going to join some of the gang down the strip at the disco everyone’s been talking about. You and Sal going to come?”
Johnny looked at Sal. Sal looked at Johnny. Microscopically, they shrugged.
“Sure,” said Johnny. “Sounds good.”
“Oh, well, um....” Kermit began, but the door opened at his back and Piggy emerged. As usual, it was worth the wait. She was wearing heels, but not the ones she had tried on earlier. In fact, Kermit had never seen this pair of strappy high heels before, but that was hardly surprising. Piggy had lots of shoes that he had never seen before. He looked at his own flippered feet philosophically. At least they go with everything, he thought, then smiled up at Piggy.
“Worth the wait,” he said, reaching to kiss her cheek. Piggy allowed it.
“Of course,” she murmured. Her eyes said she had not forgotten his teasing and would surely get even, but she smiled at him and slipped a satin-gloved hand under his elbow. “Lead on, Mon Capitan.” She looked at Johnny and Sal narrowly. They seemed to be standing awfully close.
Kermit looked uncomfortable, trying to think how to explain that he seemed to have inadvertently invited Johnny and Sal along on their date.
“Um, Piggy--” he began, but Johnny took their elbows, steering them toward the door. Piggy usually did not tolerant unwanted handling, but she was too surprised to protest.
“Come on,” said Johnny. “We’ll take my car--arrive in style.”
Piggy perked up. The thought of arriving in Johnny’s red sports car was tempting, but her expression said she was not entirely convinced.
“Great shoes,” said Sal. “Be a shame to ruin them on the sidewalk.”
That settled that. “Oh, thank vous,” she said, with a pleased little laugh. “We would love a ride.”
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