Chapter 74: Clumping and Thumping
While the muppets were clumping and comforting, Scribbler was running for his life. At least, he felt that he was in mortal danger if that hairy little drummer managed to catch up to him, so he ran like a man committed. While he ran, thoughts both random and profound ran through his mind. First, he amused himself by calling his boss every vile and malicious thing he could think of. That took a long time (but not long enough, he thought darkly), and took him down six flights of stairs and almost to the main floor. He could hear Animal whining and panting behind him and did not so much as spare a glance behind. How many teeth did that thing have, anyway? He spent the rest of his almost free-fall down the stairs contemplating polyester. While arguably fashionable and unusually durable, it was not really meant to be worn while running. Its comfort and maneuverability were further compromised by the addition of sequins and rhinestones, which only served to add friction in somewhat awkward places. He had shed the wig about the third staircase, hoping to buy a little time, but did not realized until he was sprinting through the lobby that he had lost track of his, um, tail. Before he could heave a sigh of relief at the thought of losing his pursuer, Scribbler found himself standing exposed in the casino proper (if a casino can be called proper, that is). Despite the sea of humanity around him, he felt both horrible and conspicuous.
All sorts of folks come to Las Vegas for the holidays. Performers, of course, and sweethearts, of course—and even families and friends and conventions and, well, just about everyone might be found in Nevada for the end of the year festivities—and many of them are found. There are lots of things to do there. There is gambling, of course, but as Robin pointed out, that’s a good way to lose your candied gnat money, so for those that don’t want to gamble, there is eating. Some of the most gustatorially challenging restaurants on the planet can be found on the Strip. If you are not hungry, you might want to be entertained, and the plethora of magicians, singers, dancers and hard-core wannabes could probably ensure that, if you were bored, it was your own fault.
As it so happens, several people who had been to the muppets final Christmas Day show were engaging in another of Las Vegas’ extremely popular pastimes—standing in line. All of the fans in line would have preferred eating and reminiscing about the show and other muppet performances to standing in line and reminiscing, but the feeling of holiday cheer and good will toward their fellowman was carrying the day. Although it is true that some of them were probably contemplating gambling, all of them at present were talking with great animation about the show, the acts within the show and the actors and actresses within the acts. Given that Vegas is a huge melting pot of humanity, the conversation of one group naturally bled over into the other nearby conversations, and eventually the individual conversations merged into one big raucous free-for-all of a conversation about the much-touted performers.
One young woman who had volunteered that she was on break from law school was clapping her hands in delight.
“…-loved the whole thing, but when Pepe came out dressed as Elvis, I thought I would just—“
“I know,” said her companion, “but you’ve got to admit that you’ve never seen anyone juggle fruit like the little furry blue guy!”
Next to her were two elderly couples. The men were grumbling, but the women were delightful conversationalists.
“…couldn’t imagine a more fitting tribute to our troops serving far away from home,“ said one of them.
“I know, Astoria,” said the first. “And I just loved the old fifties music.”
“That’s because you were old during the 50s,” muttered her husband, but if she noticed his churlishness she gave no sign.
“Ho hoo!” crowed the other old man. “And some of the bear’s jokes were old before then!”
The women ignored them, but Penelope Statler did manage to clock her husband with her enormous purse and make it look like an accident.
“…don’t know how Kermit managed to keep his wits about him. That red dress of Piggy’s was—I don’t even know what to say except that some sort of anti-gravity device must be in use,“ a sophisticated-looking woman in a chic black dress said.
“And those green pajamas were so elegant. Did you see her shoes?” Autumn Transylvania and the woman in the chic dress had not ceased to praise Piggy’s wardrobe, and Autumn turned to her date and gushed. “They were to die for!”
He date cleared his throat diplomatically. “I wasn’t exactly looking at her shoes,” he said dryly, “but I’m very sorry I didn’t get to see Piggy’s…dress.”
Autumn laughed wickedly. “Yes, I’m sure it’s the dress you’re regretting,” she murmured. The line inched forward microscopically, and she stepped out of line for a moment, craning her neck to get a better look at the front of the line. She turned back, her eyes scanning automatically for anything amiss.
“I think I see the front of the—“ she began, but trailed off abruptly. Ed tensed, feeling the sudden tension in her frame, but when she spoke her voice sounded normal. “Darling,” Autumn Transylvania said casually. “I know that man standing over there in…well, part of an Elvis costume.”
Autumn’s low, melodious voice was languid, but Ed heard the undercurrent of excitement in it and felt the short hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
“A friend?” he asked, his voice as casual as hers.
“No—I don’t think so. But I know him.” She was still standing in the protection of his chilvilrously-profferred arm, but she had turned her body slightly away from their crowd of new friends. To most people watching, Autumn and Ed looked like any other touristy couple glammed up for the holiday and craning for a look at some celebrity or other. They were, in fact, having a significant and somewhat secret conversation in the midst of many strangers, but it is doubtful that many people noticed. One person noticed—one someone skilled in watching the body language of others, especially during trial testimony. She watched them surreptitiously out of the corner of her eye, wondering about the dark-haired beauty and her companion.
“Should we go over and say hello?” Ed asked. “I know how you’d kick yourself if you missed an opportunity to catch up with an old client.”
Autumn definitely had kicking on her mind, but the target was certainly not herself. She reached out and brushed a non-existent particle of lint from her lover’s shoulder and used the excuse of their closer stance to murmur something in his ear.
“It’s Scribbler,” she mouthed, her lips moving air subtly against his neck. “I don’t know why he’s wearing and Elvis Presley costume but he looks like he’s up to no good.”
Ed nodded, then grinned a wolfish grin. “What are we waiting for?” he said, and they broke their place in line without a backward glance.
To leave your hard-fought place in line without at least a sigh of resignation was unusual, was odd, and Ari watched the dashing couple move off without protest. It piqued her interest in the object of their move, and she turned and studied the man they were closing in on. The man who was close to being intercepted looked odd, too—disheveled, distrustful and a little wild-eyed with anxiety, not to mention the fact that he was wearing what looked like an Elvis costume.
Of course, Ari argued to herself, Vegas was full of Elvi. Perhaps the well-dressed couple were intending to ask him about his show, but he did not look like he wanted attention. In fact, he looked very much like he was on the run—from someone or something. Ari looked automatically for something that would explain that impression—a stolen purse on his arm, a bag full of cash in his fist, a—oh. Oh! The Elvis regalia had dominated, but when Ari’s eye finally looked searchingly at the man’s face, she gave a little involuntary blanch. She knew that man! She did—she had seen his face beside dozens of magazine articles, articles about two of her favorite performers. Not recently, of course, but Fleet Scribbler’s smirking byline had once been the place to go for news on the current status of the Miss Piggy/Kermit the Frog relationship. His stuff had been…epic, really. He had announced their engagement—several times, as a matter of fact, and the fact that he’d had to retract those announcements had not quelled his enthusiasm at all. He had been unashamedly biased in reporting anything that Piggy had been willing to tell him—whether Kermit was willing or not. He had scooped more private photos of the courting couple before their marriage than anyone, and had not stopped reporting on the state of their lovey-dovey-ness until the earth-shattering announcement of their wedding—the real one this time. After that...Ari’s thoughts trailed off here because Scribbler had just realized he was the focal point of entirely too much pointed scrutiny. He watched the couple’s approach with something like alarm, but it was nothing to the looks he continued to throw over his shoulder, as though fearing pursuit from some quarter. The woman stepped forward to say something and Scribbler took a step backward, his body tensing.
Ari didn’t spare a thought to her place in line. This elegant couple were fans, and they didn’t like Scribbler, which meant that she wanted to be on their side—whatever that entailed. She sprinted forward, running toward the couple who were talking to Scribbler…just in time to see him bolt.
“He going!” Autumn rapped to her companion. “He’s making a run—“ She sprinted off after the polyester-clad reporter, hampered somewhat by her exquisite shoes. It was pursuit, to be certain, but a discreet pursuit designed to not alarm the other guests. Autumn did not want to arouse too much interest or involve the security guards. She was not—exactly—in her own jurisdiction here, although that wasn’t going to worry her too much.
Ari bounded up to the man with the ornate cane, who turned toward her at once. “That was Fleet Scribbler!” she blurted out.
“Yes,” Ed said. “Autumn’s gone after him. “I’d certainly like to talk to that man.” Though his voice was civilized, Ari noticed that his fingers tightened angrily around the polished wood in his hands and she suspected he’d like to do more than talk. He didn’t say more but fretted, his body following the sounds of pursuit.
“Will she—will Autumn catch him? He looks like he’s up to no good,” Ari said.
“She very quick,” Ed said dryly. “If he’s not fast enough….” He trailed off, suddenly seeming aware that he might be talking too freely. “Of course, she just wants to ask him some questions.”
“Well, I’d like to ask him some questions, too,” Ari said angrily. “Like what the heck does he think he’s doing, writing all that garbage about Kermit and Piggy?!” The indignation in her voice made Ed smile broadly.
“A kindred spirit,” he said. “I’m not a fan of his recent work, either,” Ed admitted. He face was thoughtful. “Although there was a time—“ He stopped, his body honing in on some sound. “Did she catch him?”
Ari had been watching Scribbler dodge and weave between catatonic gamblers and noisy guests and had temporarily lost sight of them.
“Not yet,” Ari said, “but I saw them just a moment ago—oh! I see them!” Instinctively, she grabbed Ed’s arm, turning him with her toward the glimpse she gotten. “I think he’s doubling back toward the stairs!”
Ed could now hear the slap of shoes on the muffling carpet, following their progress in his mind’s eye. Abruptly, he took Ari’s elbow and pulled her with him.
“If they’re heading for the stairs,” he said, sotto voce, then they’ll have to come by…here.”
“Here they come!” Ari cried excitedly.
It all happened very fast. Scribbler burst through the restaurant line, scattering disgruntled diners, with Autumn hot on his trail. Absently, Ari noticed that she now carried her lovely shoes in her hand, and that she was gaining, but she also saw that it wasn’t going to be enough. The doors to the stairwell were too close, Scribbler’s lead too solid, Autumn’s reaching hands not going to make it—
So quick she almost missed it, Edward leaned forward and thrust his cane out around ankle level, right in the path of the terrified reporter. Scribbler tripped over it and sprawled unceremoniously at their feet, looking bewildered. He turned, his eyes wide with fear at the sight of Autumn advancing on him, and tried to scramble back. Ed reached down, groping for a hold on him—
Ari was suddenly on the floor, as were Ed and Autumn. She reached out instinctively and tried to grab a polyestered arm, but grabbed an ancient suit coat sleeve instead. The sleeve and the suit coat belonged to a very elderly man with a hook nose, an aggressive chin and a bald dome fringed with bushy hair.
“Somebody get the name of the truck that just hit me!” he complained, rubbing the back of his scrawny neck. Ari was mortified.
“Sorry,” she muttered. “I didn’t mean--I was trying to get—“
“You ran into her, you old coot!” said a second quavering voice. Ari spun and looked behind her to see another very elderly gentleman sprawled across Autumn’s lap. Ari and Autumn stared at each other in surprise. Ed had managed to stand up, and offered his hand toward Ari’s voice.
“Let me help you up,” he murmured. Ari took his hand, and the two of them managed to, er, prop the second octogenarian on his feet. Autumn rolled to her feet with enviable grace and the three of them hauled the other elderly man to his feet. Immediately, the two men were commandeered by their anxious wives, who brushed them off and marched them firmly back into the restaurant line.
“Scribbler?” Ed asked.
“Did he--?” Ari began, looking around, but Autumn’s shoulders rose in a gesture that was both resigned and graceful.
“He’s gone.” While they had been wallowing on the floor, Scribbler had retreated, leaving behind a smattering of sequins on the carpeted floor.
Ed muttered something under his breath, then sighed, and smiled determinedly. He turned toward the sound of Ari’s voice.
“Autumn,” he said. “This young lady was ready to join the cause,” he said lightly, and Autumn gave a big smile.
“Yes,” she said. “You’re the one who enjoyed Pepe’s Elvis impersonation.”
“Ari,” she said, offering her hand.
“I’m Autumn, and this is Ed,” the lovely lady murmured, returned the handclasp. “Thank you for your assistance.” There was an accent—faint and hard to pin down—in her low voice.
“I’m not sure I was much help,” Ari said. “But I saw Fleet Scribbler and….” She trailed off, not sure what else to say.
“A despicable man,” Autumn agreed, and Ed repeated his mutter.
Glumly, they turned back toward the restaurant line, ready to start their wait over, but when they would have passed by their former companions; the group erupted into clapping and cheering and sucked them back into their former spots in line.
“I’m just sorry you didn’t catch him,” said one of the young men.
Penelope Statler made a loud harrumph. “I’m just sorry you didn’t whack him,” she said, and the crowd erupted with laughter.
Scribbler was packed, out and on a plane within an hour, but not before he had unloaded a heap of invective on his bemused boss. He sat crammed into the worst seat on the flight, one hand touching his healing nose and the other massaging his bruised shins. This was it. He was done. He was calling it quits. Really. No fooling.
In the midst of his hunched misery, his phone gave a buzz against his kidneys. He’d forgotten to turn the durn thing off, and he pulled it out and looked at the sender of the text message, almost deleting it without opening it. Later, he wished he had, but that was later, and in the now he did open the message and look at it. He looked at it for a long time. It contained no letters at all, only numbers--and a dollar sign. He stared at the numbers for a long, long time, feeling his soul shrivel. Before he could stop himself, he hit replay and typed two letters in reply.
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