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Chapter 41: Machinations
“That’s right, officer,” said the grey-haired gentleman. “We were coming out of a show—the four of us—and saw a crowd of young people go by.”
The officer felt his mouth trying to quirk into a smile. Everyone here must seem like a young person to this fellow, he thought, but he kept his just-the-facts face on—the one he had perfected at the police academy.
“And this frog was with them?”
“That’s right. Right in the middle. I could see his little green feet as they walked by.”
“When did you see the other gentleman?”
“Who? Oh—you mean the guy with the gun.”
“Did you see the gun?” the policeman interrupted.
“Did I—? Hmm.” The grey-haired gentleman turned to his white-haired companion. “Did I see the gun?”
“Don’t ask me,” snapped the mustachioed man, who looked more shaken than angry. “I was too busy cowering behind the wives.”
The policeman looked politely in the direction he was pointing to see two stately older women who looked somewhat pale but otherwise intact. He made a note to interview them as soon as possible.
“It wasn’t actually a frog, officer,” said Astoria Waldorf. “I’m pretty sure it was some sort of lizard.”
Good eyes, the policeman thought admiringly. She might actually have seen something useful.
“That’s right,” he said. Some bubbly-brained newscaster had incorrectly identified the target of the shooting, which just made it that much harder to get reliable reports of what really happened. Just his luck that some cable entertainment show had been doing a piece on Vegas as the time the shots were fired. He craned his neck to look for his partner, Officer MacClellan. She was talking to the victim, who had been shaken up but not actually hurt. They made eye contact and she nodded. Almost done here.
“And I was just minding my own business, mate,” said the little green fellow, “when—bam! Out of nowhere comes this chap with a gun. Well, I know a risky situation when I see one,” he continued. “I hit the pavement.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“Well—I don’t think so—thanks to your bobbies, you know.” He held up his little arm. There was a nasty gravel scrape on it from where he’d slid on the sidewalk, but it was crusting over.
MacClellan had been about to suggest he have it looked at and bandaged, but she stopped and looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean, thanks to your bobbies?”
The little gecko looked up at her and blinked. “Your chaps—the, um, policemen. They took him down, took the gun away and hustled him off.” He smiled. “Efficient.”
“Um, yeah,” she said. “Which way did they take him?” she asked, trying to sound casual. “There were two of them?”
“Yes—big chaps, both of them. You must have a good fitness program here.”
“Did they, um, leave in a cruiser? Or an unmarked.”
“Unmarked,” the fellow said immediately. “A big car—dark windows.”
“Ah,” said MacClellan, trying to catch her partner’s eyes. “Got it.” She jerked her head at her fellow officer and he saw the urgency in her eyes and came over. She started to speak, then noticed the little gecko eyeing them with interest. She tried to smile normally.
“When you get that arm taken care of, Sir, one of our officers will drive you down to the station to make a statement, okay?”
“Certainly. Happy to oblige. You don’t have to have a police report to file insurance, but it certainly helps.” He smiled at her a moment longer. “Um, who does the police station use for car insurance?”
MacClellan practically dragged a junior officer over to her side.
“This is Officer Krupke—he’ll take you down to the station.”
When they were safely away, she turned to her partner and gave him a familiar look.
“This one isn’t going to help our solve rate,” she said dryly.
“How come?”
“Our vic saw some of ‘our bobbies’ take the shooter away. Big guys, big dark car.”
“Ah.”
“Ah.”
He shrugged. “One less for us?”
She gave him an annoyed look, but said nothing. “We are not on the same side,” she said primly, then felt supercilious and smiled at herself.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Always.”
“What the devil is this?” spat the voice Scribbler had come to think of as his own personal demon. If this had been a sitcom, he would have said, “Don’t shout” and closed his girrty, red-rimmed eyes even though no one was shouting. Someone was indeed shouting, but he didn’t bother to ask them to stop—it would have done any good, and he saw no point in trying to tamp down the noise outside his head when the noise and pain inside his head was enough to make him want to pass out. Again.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Should I have used smaller words?”
There was an icy silence that should have frozen him to his seat, but he already felt like his head was floating 18 inches above his neck and he couldn’t be bothered with trivialities like deadly looks.
“You are this close, mister—this close to—“
“****,” said Scribbler defiantly. “But I’m already on the lowest level, so don’t even think you can threaten me.” He did not bother to be cautious about what he said. He expected this hangover to kill him, and end his multitude of problems neatly.
He looked around the little hotel room. Since he’d come back to find his haven violated, the room had taken on a dingy hue, and the once-talented journalist had found even short amounts of time there repugnant. Still, having delivered his latest piece by fax to the main office, he’d found himself inebriated, grimy and more than a little nauseated. He hadn’t yet decided yet if the nausea was from the alcohol, or internal decay, but he had determined, grimly and unhappily, at about two in the morning, that he had no where else to go. No one else who wanted him. He even tried to dredge up the name and memory of some girl—any girl—who had once cared about him, but all girls faces faded into one in his mind and he gave it up and slunk back to his hotel room to sprawl comatose in the big recliner.
Until now. He didn’t know when now was, but he was certain it was after the latest copy of the lovely tabloid he worked for had hit the news stands. He knew this because he could hear the words he’d written being snapped out staccato fashion, interspersed with profanities, while a dark-suited figure paced the little room like a caged tiger.
“…conclude that the Muppets have once again found a place in our collective Christmas consciousness. Everything that happens on that stage happens because of the determined efforts of one little green frog to make audiences happy, no matter what.
“Despite numerous last-minute cast changes, and a frantic call for re-costuming, the show goes on brilliantly. Kermit the Frog maintains control of the mayhem with admirable aplomb, moving cast and crew about relentlessly until everything comes together onstage for the audience.
Backstage appears to be another story. On stage, the frog and pig sizzle like bacon, but rumors of lover’s spats and backstage difficulties abound. It is a testament to the professionalism of the current Mrs. The Frog that things look so lovey-dovey on stage. Everyone knows what a stellar actress Miss Piggy is, but which part of her life is the performance? One has to wonder what—or who—is really putting the twinkle, twinkle into this rising star.”
There was a pregnant pause, then a shout that actually propelled Scribbler out of his chair, clutching his head to keep it from rolling away.
“WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU!”
“Geez-Louise,” Scribbler panted. “You want to kill me?”
“Why don’t you just go work for her publicist? Or take a job as—no wait, I know. You can run your own Miss Piggy fan site on the internet. Is that what you’re trying to accomplish? ON MY DIME?”
“We talked about this,” Scribbler said reasonably, (at least as reasonably as can be expected from someone about to lose his lunch.) “We talked about driving a wedge between them. If people think she’s unappreciated—“
“Not much chance of that with you around,” came the mutter. Scribbler chose to ignore it.
“If people think he’s a pain and she’s unappreciated, they’ll try to lure her away. I’ll bet you a quarter of the audience there were single guys just hoping to be on hand if she makes a break.”
“No wonder you felt so at home.”
Scribbler’s head hurt so bad he felt reckless, and he had had quite enough for one miserable morning. He drew himself up to his full height. He was not a big man, but there was something unyielding in his posture that inspired caution, if not fear.
“You want me to stop working on this, I’ll stop. But say one more smart word to me about…her, and I’ll walk out of here and report every single thing you’ve ever—“
“You wouldn’t dare!” But there was doubt—just a smidgen, but doubt nonetheless—in those narrowed eyes.
They stared at each other for a long, highly charged moment, then the cruel mouth curved into a small smile that didn’t come close to reaching the blazing eyes. A hand waved dismissively.
“Fine. We’ll see how this plays.”
“Yes,” said Scribbler. “We will.” He held his composure for as long as he could, then walked stiffly to the bathroom and was suddenly, violently sick. He couldn’t swear to it, but he was pretty sure he heard laughter in the room behind him.
“That’s right, officer,” said the grey-haired gentleman. “We were coming out of a show—the four of us—and saw a crowd of young people go by.”
The officer felt his mouth trying to quirk into a smile. Everyone here must seem like a young person to this fellow, he thought, but he kept his just-the-facts face on—the one he had perfected at the police academy.
“And this frog was with them?”
“That’s right. Right in the middle. I could see his little green feet as they walked by.”
“When did you see the other gentleman?”
“Who? Oh—you mean the guy with the gun.”
“Did you see the gun?” the policeman interrupted.
“Did I—? Hmm.” The grey-haired gentleman turned to his white-haired companion. “Did I see the gun?”
“Don’t ask me,” snapped the mustachioed man, who looked more shaken than angry. “I was too busy cowering behind the wives.”
The policeman looked politely in the direction he was pointing to see two stately older women who looked somewhat pale but otherwise intact. He made a note to interview them as soon as possible.
“It wasn’t actually a frog, officer,” said Astoria Waldorf. “I’m pretty sure it was some sort of lizard.”
Good eyes, the policeman thought admiringly. She might actually have seen something useful.
“That’s right,” he said. Some bubbly-brained newscaster had incorrectly identified the target of the shooting, which just made it that much harder to get reliable reports of what really happened. Just his luck that some cable entertainment show had been doing a piece on Vegas as the time the shots were fired. He craned his neck to look for his partner, Officer MacClellan. She was talking to the victim, who had been shaken up but not actually hurt. They made eye contact and she nodded. Almost done here.
“And I was just minding my own business, mate,” said the little green fellow, “when—bam! Out of nowhere comes this chap with a gun. Well, I know a risky situation when I see one,” he continued. “I hit the pavement.”
“Anyone hurt?”
“Well—I don’t think so—thanks to your bobbies, you know.” He held up his little arm. There was a nasty gravel scrape on it from where he’d slid on the sidewalk, but it was crusting over.
MacClellan had been about to suggest he have it looked at and bandaged, but she stopped and looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean, thanks to your bobbies?”
The little gecko looked up at her and blinked. “Your chaps—the, um, policemen. They took him down, took the gun away and hustled him off.” He smiled. “Efficient.”
“Um, yeah,” she said. “Which way did they take him?” she asked, trying to sound casual. “There were two of them?”
“Yes—big chaps, both of them. You must have a good fitness program here.”
“Did they, um, leave in a cruiser? Or an unmarked.”
“Unmarked,” the fellow said immediately. “A big car—dark windows.”
“Ah,” said MacClellan, trying to catch her partner’s eyes. “Got it.” She jerked her head at her fellow officer and he saw the urgency in her eyes and came over. She started to speak, then noticed the little gecko eyeing them with interest. She tried to smile normally.
“When you get that arm taken care of, Sir, one of our officers will drive you down to the station to make a statement, okay?”
“Certainly. Happy to oblige. You don’t have to have a police report to file insurance, but it certainly helps.” He smiled at her a moment longer. “Um, who does the police station use for car insurance?”
MacClellan practically dragged a junior officer over to her side.
“This is Officer Krupke—he’ll take you down to the station.”
When they were safely away, she turned to her partner and gave him a familiar look.
“This one isn’t going to help our solve rate,” she said dryly.
“How come?”
“Our vic saw some of ‘our bobbies’ take the shooter away. Big guys, big dark car.”
“Ah.”
“Ah.”
He shrugged. “One less for us?”
She gave him an annoyed look, but said nothing. “We are not on the same side,” she said primly, then felt supercilious and smiled at herself.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Always.”
“What the devil is this?” spat the voice Scribbler had come to think of as his own personal demon. If this had been a sitcom, he would have said, “Don’t shout” and closed his girrty, red-rimmed eyes even though no one was shouting. Someone was indeed shouting, but he didn’t bother to ask them to stop—it would have done any good, and he saw no point in trying to tamp down the noise outside his head when the noise and pain inside his head was enough to make him want to pass out. Again.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “Should I have used smaller words?”
There was an icy silence that should have frozen him to his seat, but he already felt like his head was floating 18 inches above his neck and he couldn’t be bothered with trivialities like deadly looks.
“You are this close, mister—this close to—“
“****,” said Scribbler defiantly. “But I’m already on the lowest level, so don’t even think you can threaten me.” He did not bother to be cautious about what he said. He expected this hangover to kill him, and end his multitude of problems neatly.
He looked around the little hotel room. Since he’d come back to find his haven violated, the room had taken on a dingy hue, and the once-talented journalist had found even short amounts of time there repugnant. Still, having delivered his latest piece by fax to the main office, he’d found himself inebriated, grimy and more than a little nauseated. He hadn’t yet decided yet if the nausea was from the alcohol, or internal decay, but he had determined, grimly and unhappily, at about two in the morning, that he had no where else to go. No one else who wanted him. He even tried to dredge up the name and memory of some girl—any girl—who had once cared about him, but all girls faces faded into one in his mind and he gave it up and slunk back to his hotel room to sprawl comatose in the big recliner.
Until now. He didn’t know when now was, but he was certain it was after the latest copy of the lovely tabloid he worked for had hit the news stands. He knew this because he could hear the words he’d written being snapped out staccato fashion, interspersed with profanities, while a dark-suited figure paced the little room like a caged tiger.
“…conclude that the Muppets have once again found a place in our collective Christmas consciousness. Everything that happens on that stage happens because of the determined efforts of one little green frog to make audiences happy, no matter what.
“Despite numerous last-minute cast changes, and a frantic call for re-costuming, the show goes on brilliantly. Kermit the Frog maintains control of the mayhem with admirable aplomb, moving cast and crew about relentlessly until everything comes together onstage for the audience.
Backstage appears to be another story. On stage, the frog and pig sizzle like bacon, but rumors of lover’s spats and backstage difficulties abound. It is a testament to the professionalism of the current Mrs. The Frog that things look so lovey-dovey on stage. Everyone knows what a stellar actress Miss Piggy is, but which part of her life is the performance? One has to wonder what—or who—is really putting the twinkle, twinkle into this rising star.”
There was a pregnant pause, then a shout that actually propelled Scribbler out of his chair, clutching his head to keep it from rolling away.
“WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU!”
“Geez-Louise,” Scribbler panted. “You want to kill me?”
“Why don’t you just go work for her publicist? Or take a job as—no wait, I know. You can run your own Miss Piggy fan site on the internet. Is that what you’re trying to accomplish? ON MY DIME?”
“We talked about this,” Scribbler said reasonably, (at least as reasonably as can be expected from someone about to lose his lunch.) “We talked about driving a wedge between them. If people think she’s unappreciated—“
“Not much chance of that with you around,” came the mutter. Scribbler chose to ignore it.
“If people think he’s a pain and she’s unappreciated, they’ll try to lure her away. I’ll bet you a quarter of the audience there were single guys just hoping to be on hand if she makes a break.”
“No wonder you felt so at home.”
Scribbler’s head hurt so bad he felt reckless, and he had had quite enough for one miserable morning. He drew himself up to his full height. He was not a big man, but there was something unyielding in his posture that inspired caution, if not fear.
“You want me to stop working on this, I’ll stop. But say one more smart word to me about…her, and I’ll walk out of here and report every single thing you’ve ever—“
“You wouldn’t dare!” But there was doubt—just a smidgen, but doubt nonetheless—in those narrowed eyes.
They stared at each other for a long, highly charged moment, then the cruel mouth curved into a small smile that didn’t come close to reaching the blazing eyes. A hand waved dismissively.
“Fine. We’ll see how this plays.”
“Yes,” said Scribbler. “We will.” He held his composure for as long as he could, then walked stiffly to the bathroom and was suddenly, violently sick. He couldn’t swear to it, but he was pretty sure he heard laughter in the room behind him.
Vous knows what I mean.
