Chapter 120: Colder, but Wiser
As someone once observed, it’s funny how one thing can mean so many different things, depending on how you look at it. To Fleet, the little convenience shop had been a place where, if she lingered, he could count on seeing Piggy. They had not talked since the day she had asked for his help, but he made sure that if she dawdled a little, she would see him if she needed to talk to him. Once, she had looked vaguely and searchingly in his direction on the far corner of the block, but he had shaken his head slightly, admitting defeat. It had been difficult and humiliating, but Scribbler had put out feelers and called on some old contacts. Some had been rude; most had been astonished. A few had been friendly, surprising Scribbler. One had even dragged him along on a doughnut run, and they had sat around his old friend’s crowded and messy desk and eaten the doughnuts and drunk bad coffee out of the ancient, stained coffee pot. Scribbler almost felt like a reporter again.
To Piggy, the little sundries shop had been a place where she had sought refuge—and found it. As promised, the once-goth girl behind the counter had brought in some of her grandmother’s scarves, and Piggy had exclaimed over the quality, making the girl look pleased and hopeful. Underneath all the layers of chalky make-up, it was determined that Leila had lovely peaches-and-cream skin, and while her lashes were the same honey-blonde as her natural hair-color, a little Very Black mascara on the tips after a thorough coat of Black-Brown made her hazel eyes pop under her tastefully decorated eyelids. Piggy had not even fussed over the triple pierced eyebrows, merely insisting that she find quality silver or gold studs that did not detract.
“Moi is afraid we’re going to have to create cheekbones,” Piggy had fussed, but the awed store-clerk was compliant and ready to be reformed in a more glamorous image. Piggy fussed, brushing three different shades of powder blush in a subtle upsweep over the young lady’s round face, and the fake cheekbone lines did look enormously convincing. Bemoaning the lack of color and variety, Piggy had finally allowed Leila to put on a simple black sheath. The tights had been banished—“Men usually want to see your legs, dear,”—but the platform boots had met conditional approval until the whole ensemble had been hauled together. Piggy draped the scarf artfully across her shoulders, then stood still and stared at Leila’s pale locks with a charming frown on her face. “Half up, Moi thinks,” Piggy had said, and had grabbed the salesclerk’s shoulders and spun her around. “You’ll have to sit,” Piggy demanded. “Moi is not wearing very high heels today.” Three-and-a-half inches was, indeed, a low heel for Piggy. Leila sat on the counter stool and in less than two minutes, Piggy had lifted and teased and secured a substantial little poof of hair. The rest of the shop girl’s locks, freed from the weight of the hair on top, were coaxed into curls with a spritz. She hauled Leila over to the glass window—the only place that might afford a full-length view—and Leila had stared, mouth gaping.
“How—how did you do that?” she squeaked. “I…I look…pretty.” Her pretty mouth, now the color of Dazzling Berries, smiled tremulously at her reflection.
“You are pretty,” said Piggy matter-of-factly. “Not as lovely as Moi,” she said, brushing her hair back from her distinctive profile.
“Oh no,” Leila agreed.
“But quite worth looking at. When’s loverboy getting back to town?”
“He’s supposed to get leave to come see his folks and me,” she said wistfully. “He said this weekend or maybe next.”
Piggy fought the urge to say, “I’ve heard that one before.” Instead she said, “And you haven’t seen him since he left for boot camp?”
Leila shook her head, then dug in her purse under the counter and held out a picture. “This is us before he left for the service,” she said, holding out a picture. Piggy had been an actress a long time, and it took most of her training to keep from openly wincing at the unfashionable display of black leather, silver studs and eyebrow piercings. If anything, he was wearing more makeup in the picture than Leila had been. “And this is…?”
“Dante,” she said, then blushed. “Well, his real name is Donny, but his friends call him Dante.”
Piggy wondered idly who was likely to come home from leave—Dante, the goth guy, or Donny, the soldier. She had an idea but didn’t want to jinx things. “Well,” she said. “This will certainly give him something to want to come home for.” She glanced at the clock, and Leila did, too.
“You need to go,” said Leila, who had become used to Piggy’s daily schedule. “They’ll be looking for you soon.”
“And it’s time for your lunch break,” said Piggy, but Leila looked down at the counter, strewn with the tricks and tools of Piggy’s ten-minute makeover gig. Makeup, curling spritzer, cotton balls cardboard packaging covered most of the surface near the cash register. “I think I’d better clean up a little first,” she giggled, and began to put stuff into a bag from under the counter. It only took a moment, however, and Piggy sailed out the door and headed for the theater in time for Leila to lock the front door and duck into the back room.
Despite missing Kermit, and worrying about Fleet’s nonappearance for the past few days, Piggy felt moderately happy and pleased with herself. She had saved another young lady from fashion Hades, and she had not had any more unpleasant encounters, unless you counted the man who had tried to mug her the night before. She had dispatched him with no effort, berated him for ten minutes while he lay groaning on the pavement and waited until the policemen had scooped him up before going back to her apartment to heat her then-cold food. Stupid muggers. You really had to keep your wits about you in the city. It didn’t do to be caught daydreaming— Daydreaming made her think of her frog, and Piggy, despite her own caution to the contrary, became very distracted indeed.
**********
“Aw, c’mon guys,” said Kermit, feeling sheepish and conspicuous. “I don’t think anybody tried to, um, bump me off or anything. Sheesh—will you listen to how melodramatic that sounds? This is…ridiculous?”
“You’re a lot more convincing when your voice doesn’t go up on the end like that,” said Gonzo dryly, and Kermit turned and glared at him.
“Not helping,” said Kermit shortly.
Gonzo merely shrugged. “Depends on your point of view,” he said, un-cowed by the frog’s irritation. Scooter, initially relieved to be reassured by Kermit’s sangfroid, plunged determinedly into the fray.
“There was no chair in front of the freezer. The badger didn’t come in. He was outside about to bellow again when I came up.”
“The badger—oh! The lo mein is here?” Kermit asked hopefully. He had been hungry before, but now that he’d used about a gagillion calories bringing his body temperature up to just barely subnormal, he was starving.
“What? Oh—the food. Yeah. The food’s here.” Scooter discovered that he, too, was starving. Fozzie said nothing, but his stomach grumbled loudly and Gonzo and Rizzo looked at each other.
“You wanna go, or you want me to go?” Gonzo asked.
“I’ll go. You stay here with Mr. Denial and try to talk some sense into him,” Rizzo said, and Kermit shot him an annoyed look and gave another convulsive heave. Fozzie reached over and pulled Kermit back up against him. At first, Kermit resisted, his body taut with tension, but Fozzie’s gentle insistence made Kermit feel mean and churlish and he relaxed once more against the warm fuzziness of his friend. He saw Scooter watching him anxiously and sighed, giving in. Oh! How he hated to be the absolute center of attention, Kermit thought miserably. He was no wilting vine, but he usually liked just his share of the limelight and no more. He would much rather be shoving his friends into center stage than stand there alone, and Piggy had never had any trouble finding center stage. The thought made him smile, then cringe with worry.
“Oh, look,” he blurted. “Don’t mention this to Piggy. Who knows what she’ll do if she thinks there’s trouble here.”
“You mean if she thinks you’re in trouble,” Fozzie said gently, and Kermit made a miserable sound and acquiesced.
“Me meee meep,” Beaker said insistently.
“Yes,” he admitted. “It will make her crazy if she’s there and I’m here and she thinks something is wrong.”
“Something is wrong,” Scooter insisted. He had been pretty badly shaken up by the whole debacle, but he had found his footing again and was now digging his heels in. “There was no chair in front of the freezer. I didn’t mistake that. I’m not saying someone pushed you into the freezer, but I’m saying someone moved the chair. Why would someone see the chair and not look in the freezer?”
But Kermit didn’t answer. He was looking down, his brow furrowed with thought, and his expression changed from distraught to somber.
“I—maybe someone did push me. Well, the chair, anyway.”
“Chief…?” Scooter said, eye’s widening in disbelief, but Kermit looked up wearily and nodded.
“I didn’t want to say anything because…well, it’s just…I mean, I heard the door open and I thought it was the food, so I hollered that I was in the break room.”
Scooter swallowed. “When was this?”
“It couldn’t have been too long after you left. I was waiting on the food but I knew it was too early for it to get here. I went back to see if there was any food left over from the Valentine party. And, well….someone came in the building. And if it wasn’t you, and it wasn’t the food…” He did not finish his statement.
“That’s…strange,” whispered Scooter.
“A lot of strange things have been happening around here,” Gonzo said. There was no gloating in his voice about being right, and he walked over and stood next to Scooter and Beaker and a Fozzie-draped Kermit to show solidarity.
“Me moo moop,” said Beaker, and Scooter nodded.
“Yeah, more than usual,” Scooter agreed. In his nonexistent spare time, he’d been making some headway with the Guinea pig-to-English dictionary and could now make a modicum of sense out of what the tubular scientist said.
“Yeah,” said Fozzie, and Kermit felt the rumble of his stomach again against his backbone. “I mean, I even got a fan letter,” said the comedian. Kermit felt a great surge of affection for his stalwart and painfully honest friend. “And that annoying magnetic tie tac,”
Beaker startled to life. “Mee meee me me me,” he said, holding up a finger. Scooter looked at him expectantly.
“Um, moo me meep?” Scooter asked. At the blank looks of the others, Scooter cross-translated. “Um, he said he’s been thinking about something. We, um, talked the other day about the film.”
Beaker waited, not patiently, for Scooter to finish talking to the others, then launched into a long, animated discourse that Scooter struggled to translate in spurts. At some point, Scooter looked stunned, then stopped translating in favor of talking rapidly back and forth with Beaker. When they finished talking, Scooter looked dumbfounded.
“But, but—but I never even thought of that.”
“Mee MEE mee,” said Beaker, with finality.
The others had crowded around to the point that Scooter, looking up, felt mildly claustrophobic.
“He says—Beaker says that the film may have been demagnetized.”
“De-magnetized?” Kermit repeated. “I—but how would the film come in contact with—oh. Oh.” The flummoxed frog very deliberately did not look behind him, but Fozzie gasped and put his fingers over his mouth.
“Oh no!” he wailed. “Oh! But—but, I don’t want it to be my fault!” Fozzie cried.
“It’s not,” said Kermit. “It’s not your fault.” But Fozzie had his hat over his face, keening, inconsolable.
Scooter rushed in to the rescue, patting Fozzie on the back and trying to comfort the distraught bear. “It’s not your fault, Fozzie. I thought it was my fault, but it wasn’t.”
“I know,” Fozzie moaned. “It wasn’t your fault because it was my fault!”
“Don’t take it so hard,” said Gonzo. “You couldn’t have known about the magnet.”
“Meep mee meep,” Beaker said, indignantly. “Me moop mee mee.”
“He says it’s not your fault,” Scooter translated. “And he’s right.”
“But it was my tie tack that caused the problem,” Fozzie insisted. “If it hadn’t been for that stupid fan letter, the film would have been okay, and Kermit would have gotten to go see Piggy and this is terrible. Ma would be ashamed of me.”
Despite the grimness of the situation, Kermit actually chuckled. He walked over and put his arms around his friend, holding him and offering comfort the way Fozzie had offered his earlier. “Your Ma would be proud of you, Fozzie. You practically brought me back to life today, and no one—no one here and no one anywhere—thinks the film mess-up was your fault, okay?”
Fozzie’s voice was very small and hopeful. “Really, Kermit?” he asked wistfully. “Really really?”
“Really really,” Kermit said. “Scooter and I have had this same conversation, and here’s the end of the conversation—okay? The end of the conversation is—it’s over. It’s done. We made up the time and redid the film. Whatever happened, happened, and we survived it—okay? That’s all there is to that.”
“But you were going to see Piggy,” Fozzie said, and Kermit squashed the wave of bitter disappointment that washed over him and planted a smile on his face.
“I am going to see Piggy. We just don’t know when yet, okay? But Piggy is fine. She’s in New York starring on Broadway and—besides—Howard and Thoreau are going to see her this weekend. She won’t be lonely, and I’ve got you guys to keep me company.”
“I don’t think we can replace Miss Piggy,” Gonzo said dryly.
“Miss Piggy can’t be replaced,” said Kermit firmly. “But I think the lot of you can probably keep me out of freezers until she’s back where she belongs, don’t you think?”
There were smiles—genuine smiles—and murmurs all around. Things might have gotten maudlin, but Rizzo arrived at that moment with a variety of takeout, all but buried under the wrappers.
“Soup’s on,” the little rat shouted, and they helped “de-bag” him and set the food on the table. Rizzo picked up on the shift in mood immediately. “What happened while I was out?” he demanded. “Are we looking for Snidely Whiplash yet?”
“I’ll fill you in while we eat,” said Gonzo, “but you’d better hop to.” Kermit and Scooter and Fozzie had fallen on the food like starvelings, and the rodent had to hurry to fill his plate.
**********
“And ol’ Creepella was by again today,” said Gladys. “I saw her outside the door like she was waiting on someone.”
Harve looked at her, surprised. “That’s sorta creepy,” he admitted. “Didn’t you just run into her in the laundry room the day before?”
“Yeah—and the day before that I swear she was hanging around the mailboxes.”
Harve grunted. “Usually, the old hag stays in her room. Sometimes I doubt if we’d know if she kicked off.”
“We’d know by the smell,” Gladys said, imminently practical.
“Not much,” muttered Harve, and Gladys hushed him with a kiss on the top of his head.
“C’mon—be nice,” she soothed. “I know she’s a witch but I feel kindof sorry for her, you know?”
“No,” Harve said. He did not like the landlady—not at all. Although she had always been polite to their faces, and Gladys sometimes spoke with her, Harve had heard from too many of his friends about mysteriously placed food that made you ill and well-placed kicks in the hallways. No. He did not like the landlady.
“She’s like your friend, the reporter.”
Harve looked at her. “How do you get that?”
“Well,” said Gladys. “I just mean that she’s lonely. Your friend misses his lady pig friend, and I just wonder if Creepel—um, Doreen ever hears from anybody.”
“Who would want to talk to her?” Harve said. “She’s mean and she watches you all the time. Creepella is right.”
“Well, I try to be nice and talk to her a little,” said Gladys. “She’s so alone,” said Gladys, and her little hands clasped in front of her. Harve reached out and snagged her, pulling his wife onto his lap.
“We’re alone,” he teased, and kissed her on the neck. “And I’m nice.” Gladys giggled and put her arms around her husband’s neck.
“And I think about her not having anybody,” said Gladys.
“Think about me,” murmured Harve, kissing her on her furry little cheek.
“I have been thinking about you,” said Gladys, and kissed him rather thoroughly. Harve blinked.
“Wow,” he said. “I like it when you think.”
And Gladys had giggled again. “If you like that,” she said, “you’re gonna love this….”
**********
To Seymour, the little stylish sundries shop near the theater was the place he’d almost gotten her, the place he had almost had his deepest heart’s desire grasped firmly between his clutching hands. He believed Piggy had come to think of the little shop as somewhere where she would be safe—which was very dangerous indeed—but Seymour liked the way that worked in his favor.
He watched hungrily until the new sales clerk ducked into the back room. For days, it had been some goth-girl chick, but maybe this blonde was new or something. She and Piggy had certainly chatted like old friends, he thought, and felt a twinge of dissatisfaction like he had the other day. What right did she have? What right did she have to lavish attention and praise on strangers when she owed him so much more? They would have to talk about that. Although he knew Piggy was proud and independent, she needed to learn appropriateness. Chatting with salesclerks when she should have been draped submissively over his arm was not going to cut it—no siree. He felt a surge of anger. She should know that by now, he thought irritably.
The last attempt had not gone well. He had realized that he was going to have to time this a little more delicately than before. Too soon, and there would be witnesses. Too slow, and she’d be within the safety of the theater. Safety, hah! Nothing would keep her safe until she was safe and secure and subservient in his care. He saw her walking down the sidewalk slowly, thoughtfully, unmindful of him. The moment had come. He poured the chlorophyll onto the chamois rag in his gloved hand, held his fist so it was hidden from view, and stepped out of the dilapidated wreck of a car he’d rented.
Some guys will do anything to get a girl.
**********
“You think she’s gonna be mad at me?” Clifford muttered to Mabel. He was chopping up green and red peppers and an onion for her while she cut the tofu sausage into bite-sized morsels. The smell of hot butter beckoned in the skillet, and Mabel waited until Clifford slipped his vegetables into the pan so the sound of sizzling would cover her answer.
“I guess it depends,” she said, also casting anxious glances toward Tricia’s room.
“On what?” Clifford murmured. He looked over his shoulder, worried that the sexy little singer might pop through the door at any minute.
“On how it goes,” said Mabel, but she smiled at him and—completely surprising him—stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. “It was sweet of you to call.”
“Eh, I didn’t do much. It’s just, well, I know a guy who knows a guy who knows several guys—you know how it goes, right? And he’s looking for opening acts.” He moved to the other side of the sink so he could whisper and watch the door at the same time. “Tricia’s band looks good, and they sound great. They’ve really got some talent.”
“So you told ‘em to come and catch the set they’re doing down at the Bat, Bolt and Skull in State Line. Which you also set up.”
“No big,” said Clifford. “I know the guy that started the franchise in Hensonville. It’s not a big venue, but the audience usually likes their music pretty well, and it’s a fun place to kick back and have some laughs.”
“Did you tell the girls about the monsters?”
Clifford squirmed a little. “I might not have mentioned that,” he said. “Do you think they’ll care?”
“Honey, the monsters are more likely to be scared of Coraline than the girls are to be afraid of the monsters.”
“Good,” said Clifford, and started to say more but the door to Tricia’s room cracked open and Clifford practically leaped across the kitchen to sit at the table, snatching up the evening paper as though reading it. Tricia walked out of her room talking on her cell phone, but hung up almost immediately and sauntered into the kitchen. She looked at her mother at the stove and at Clifford pretending to be engrossed in the paper and laughed. She reached out and tangled her hand in Clifford’s dreadlocks for a moment, pulling playfully.
“Get done with all your gossiping?” she asked, and Clifford put the paper down and grinned at her.
“Just about,” he said. “Kermit and the Missus are going to be on the Academy Awards together Sunday night,” he said. That had been the actual start of their conversation, which had segued into other realms before long.
“I thought Miss Piggy was in New York,” said Tricia, puzzled, but Clifford explained.
“She is—starring in Grease!, and Kermit’s still in California, but they’re doing this remote thing. Scooter says it ought to be worth seeing.”
“So Miss Piggy couldn’t get out of her play to come and be on the awards show?” Tricia asked, and was surprised when Mabel and Clifford both burst into laughter.
“Tricia, honey,” said Mabel. “Now that Miss Piggy’s had a taste of Broadway, it’d take something pretty desperate to get her off the stage.”
“Yeah, man,” said Clifford. “She’d have to be out cold to miss her cue.”
On the other side of the continent, something wicked shimmered in the cold New York air.
The little cell phone clicked shut, and the owner sat fuming. Fuming and plotting. Drat that stupid reporter anyway. So he was up in New York on the company dime trying to make time with that silly pig when he ought to be…well….
For an instant, that idea didn’t seem so bad. If Scribbler was cozying up to the pig, then it probably meant that Piggy was forgetting about boring ol’ hubby at home and getting ready for some genuine New York night life. Hmmm….there was an idea….
But the hare-chasing would have to wait. There was a recalcitrant reporter who needed to be hauled up short, needed to be reminded who was boss, who was god of his little world. Besides, somebody had to cover the Awards, and Scribbler had a knack for ingratiating himself with the hoity-toity. He’s worked the red carpet pretty well in his day, before—well, back when he’d been somebody. So this dressing down might accomplish two purposes—show the little weasel who was boss and get some decent coverage of the Academy Awards. That stupid pelican who had been hired the month before couldn’t spell worth jack, and the smell of stale fish permeated the office (if they were lucky, and it wasn’t the smell of decaying fish). Having a real reporter back on home turf and on a short leash would be a welcome relief.
The blood-red iphone appeared and, with a tap here and a tap there, speed dial popped onto the screen. Number 13, one ring, two rings, three rings—he was probably fumbling the phone out of his holder this very minute—huh. Voice mail. Tip tip tap and the phone went dormant. There were days when it was fun to leave a blistering voice mail and enjoy the thought of Scribbler cringing with dread before he called, but this was different. This would be better if Scribbler was caught totally off guard, totally unprepared for the accusations and without a chance to rehearse answers. Like a predator, the thought of bringing down the buck made the black heart go pitter-pat. Better to catch him unawares, confront him with the evidence and enjoy his abject groveling while he tried to worm his way back into nonexistent good graces. Ah…something to look forward to.
**********
Piggy was thinking of Kermit, and it was very nearly the last thought she would remember. She was wondering what he was up to that moment, envisioning what she would say to him, how she would delight him with her make-over tale when she talked to him, how she would remind him that Thoreau was coming and could bring her anything he wanted to send (hint, hint) and how much of their Sunday night conversation they would pre-rehearse. She knew there was someone behind her on the sidewalk. Her peripheral vision had told her than a man in a dark coat had stepped out of a rent-a-wreck and started for the sundries shop. She had noted the expensive shoes and the nice cut of the coat, but the man appeared to be consulting a map, and his hat kept his face in shadow. When he crossed behind her on the street toward the corner shop, she thought nothing of it, and very nearly thought nothing for some time.
Piggy heard a step—too close and too firm—and half-turned, but then a pair of surprisingly strong arms clamped around her torso, immobilizing her arms, and an acrid-smelling cloth was pushed over her mouth and snout. Piggy gasped, then coughed and sputtered, inadvertently inhaling more of the noxious gas. Instantly, she knew what it was and what it meant. Chloroform! Someone was trying to knock her out, make her woozy or worse, and helpless and then…well…it didn’t bear thinking about.
Fleet stopped at the corner, still out of sight of the street, and wrestled his phone out of his trouser pocket and looked at the name that popped up. Not now, he thought sullenly. He wanted to talk to Piggy and he did not want that…that voice in his head when he did. He would call back. He would call back after he had talked to Missy, and given her what snippits of information he had. He pushed the phone back into his pants pocket and looked up. Piggy was no longer on the sidewalk.
She was—instead—in the street, being dragging quite unwillingly toward a junked car on the far side of the boulevard by someone in a dark coat and hat. Someone was trying to kidnap her. Scribbler shook his head, unable to make sense of what he saw.
Something blue fluttered on her face, and Scribbler stared, transfixed. Merciful heavens! Someone was trying to drug her—drug her and kidnap her and— He saw her blue eyes, wide with terror, and it shook him out of his paralysis. Scribbler swore. Then he ran.
Piggy stopped breathing—or tried to, holding her breath despite her assailant’s attempts to squeeze the existing air out of her lungs. She planted her feet, impeding her attacker’s progress as he tried to drag her backward toward the dilapidated car. Her suddenly immobile form made him grunt, and he pushed the damp, smelly cloth harder against her face. It was burning her lips, and her cheek felt slightly singed. She bucked and heaved, trying to break the grip of the arms that held her, but she was light-headed and off-balance. She almost got one arm free, but then her foe loosened his hold around her arms, grabbed her in a headlock and smashed the wet cloth against her nostrils. Piggy heard a roaring in her ears and thought she must be about to pass out;
She did not pass out. Instead, she was released with a suddenness that surprised her, falling to the sidewalk and banging her elbow hard. She heard grunting and muttering and rolled to her elbows and knees, dazed, to see Fleet Scribbler closing in a furious grapple with her attacker. She tried to stagger to her feet but could not manage it. If she could have, she would laid into the man in the coat with all her might, but she was not in any condition to fight.
Piggy shook her head and coughed, wanting to scream, wanting help. She was so close to the theater, that if only someone would look out, or she could yell, help would come. She was sure of it. Help had to come. Her throat was raw, burned by breathing the chloroform and she watched helplessly as Fleet swung at the dark-coated man. If the man knocked Fleet out and no one came--!
The other man had an edge on Fleet in size, but Fleet was wiry and compact, and he had grown up hard-scrabble enough to be able to handle himself in a street fight. The other man was swinging wildly, but his reach was longer than Scribbler’s, and a couple of times Piggy saw his gloved fists connect with Scribbler’s head. One glanced off, but the other one seemed to faze Scribbler and he slowed, shaking his head. The dark-coated figure turned and—although she could not see her attacker’s face in the shadow—Piggy felt the fury radiating from him and shrank back in spite of herself. Scribbler launched himself at her nemesis and threw his arms around him from behind, but the thwarted kidnapper let out a growl and broke Scribbler’s hold. He took a step toward Piggy, who tried not to whimper, paused uncertainly, then ran for the car. Fleet started after him, but—panicky—Piggy reached out and clutched his trouser hem.
“Don’t…leave me,” she croaked. Scribbler stopped where he was, knelt down and helped her to her feet. Behind them, the car screeched off into the distance.
That brought the attention of the theater, and security poured out of it. Harry—as big as a wall—came thundering down the sidewalk toward them, leading the pack.
“Miss Piggy! Miss Piggy!” Harry shouted. “Theater security! Make way!”
“Missy—oh, Missy….” Fleet said. “Can you stand?”
Piggy nodded, but she couldn’t stand up unassisted. He held her up, letting her lean on him, and quickly assessed what he could see. Her hands and knees were scraped, and her face looked puffy where the chloroform had touched it. The heel was broken off one of her shoes, and the neck of her dress was ripped. She was breathing hard and shaking, and Scribbler was worried at first that she was in shock, but a quick look at her proud face told him it was fury—not shock—that made her tremble. In spite of himself, Scribbler grinned.
“You’re okay, aren’t you, Missy?” he said softly, then Harry’s big figure loomed on the sidewalk behind her. Fleet saw the look on Harry’s face, and it was not friendly. He saw the look on Piggy’s face and stayed where he was.
“Miss Piggy--are you hurt—did he hurt you?” Harry demanded, glowering at Scribbler, his face almost as red as his hair.
“No—no. Moi is…I’m fine, Harry.” Her voice and her legs were unsteady and she had a death-grip on Scribbler’s lapel.
“Missy, I—I’m sorry,” Fleet murmured. “I tried to hold him.” Harry loomed closer, and Scribbler squared his shoulders and prepared to defend himself. Piggy felt his balance shift and looked behind her, glad to see Harry’s rhinocerous-like form coming to help her, but she realized, even in her befuddled state, why Scribbler had squared off.
“Moi is fine,” said Piggy, making her gloved hand release Scribbler’s collar. She turned and tried to smile up at Harry, who was still glaring at Fleet and his arm around Piggy’s waist.
“Who are you?” Harry demanded, and Scribbler looked up. From where he stood, the security guard’s shadow blotted out the afternoon sun.
“A friend,” said Scribbler firmly.
“Says who?” Harry demanded.
“Says Moi,” Piggy said, sounding more like her usual diva self. Absently, she put a hand to her face and winced.
“What’d he do to you?” Harry said, shifting his glare at the reporter for an instant so he could look at Piggy.
“Someone tried to…mug me,” Piggy said, the lie tripping off her tongue like it was nothing. She felt Scribbler stiffen beside her, and then she turned and looked up at Fleet. “And he…saved me.” If, in the next moment, Harry had pounded him into the earth like a nail, Scribbler would not have cared.
“Fine. She’s safe now. You can go. We’ll take it from here,” said another guard, Micah, wanting to assert control over the situation.
“I’ll stay until…until they make me go,” Fleet murmured, his voice pitched for Piggy’s ears alone. “You say. You’re the boss.” And he almost laughed when he felt Piggy stiffen in shock beside him.
“Some odious man tried to grab my purse,” Piggy said, batting her eyelashes at the guards. “And this…this nice…stranger helped chase him off. Moi is fine, although Moi is afraid my shoe is broken—“
Harry stooped and swept Piggy up in his arms like she weighed nothing at all, breaking the contact beween them. He and Scribbler glared at each other for several seconds, then the big guard turned and carried Miss Piggy away.
But Piggy was not quite done. “Oh—Micah—Micah! Will you please get that nice stranger’s phone number?” she asked. “Moi would like to call him and thank him later.”
Grumbling, not at all content to have been scooped on the job by a scrawny stranger, Micah took down the man’s phone number.
“Yer name?” Micah asked sourly.
But Scribbler was ready for him. “Harve,” he said. “Just call me Harve.”
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That is DISGUSTIN'. Whadda waste of blue cheese.