Pipsqueak (14 page)

“After all we’ve been through, you gave Pipsqueak back to the naturopaths?” I assumed that this must be Bookerman, but without General Buster’s white muttonchops and a pith helmet topped by a red parrot, I couldn’t be sure. His voice didn’t have the animated, announcer’s bass that I remembered as a child.

Sloan’s eyes were red with tears. He tried to keep the sobs out of his voice. “What you’re doing isn’t right, I tell you! They use color, you use sound, and everybody loses!” He turned to Bing. “It’s not about the music or nicotine! It’s about the spheres.”

“Enough,” Mud Man barked. “Give him a bath.”

Bowler and Bing hustled Sloan over to the next tub and, after a brief tussle, pitched him headlong into the mud, his hands still tied behind his back. Spatter flew from the tub, Sloan’s sobs of panic burst from gooey bubbles, the tan of his suit quickly disappeared. I got a glance at Bookerman, his head turned from the fracas to keep mud out of his eyes.

Bing and Bowler backed across the narrow room away from the erupting mud tub, eyes averted, arms over their faces, and before me lay an open path to the door. Heart tight as a fist in my throat, I took two big strides, slipped on the mud, and pitched headlong toward the door. Behind me I heard a shout.

I bumped into the door and pulled myself onto my knees. Bookerman, a pillar of barking mud, was standing in his tub. He was pointing at me but yelling at Bing and Bowler. They were on the floor, trying to scramble to their feet. I skittered out into the locker room. My ears pounding, I ran toward the Exit sign and into the paneled hallway.

Bing and Bowler burst through the doors behind me, and I dashed around the corner, then up a flight of stairs and down another hall until I thrust through a set of swinging doors into an office area full of people. A woman in a funny little winged hat and a Speed Shop bowling shirt sat at a green monochrome computer monitor, typing. A man in round specs, slicked-back hair, and Speed Shop bowling shirt worked with colored markers on a poster at a drafting table. A hairy, bullnecked man in a Speed Shop bowling shirt was in a heated conversation on the phone. In a glassed booth filled with recording equipment were technicians—in bowling shirts with the red dice—making CDs and cassettes, the attached recording studio empty except for mics and music stands. Checkers, that professor or whatever from the Church of Jive, was there in his trademark suit, pouring himself a cup of coffee. They all went slack-jawed at my sudden appearance, and I vaulted over a low partition, aiming at an Exit sign on the other side of the room where sunlight spread under the door. Poster Boy lunged at me as I passed, but I shunted him off with my shoulder.

Past the doors was a wide, short staircase down to the building’s street exit. There were two red-diced greasers guarding the glass doors, one sitting casually on the desk corner and the other leaning back in a chair at the desk. I had the advantage of surprise and was determined to use it. Instead of trying to skirt around them, I ran right toward the desk, screeching like a chimp on fire.

The one leaning in the chair fell back, tipping over a plant behind him. One down.

The other, unfortunately, sprang up and fumbled for his gun. I grabbed a brass lamp from the desk and flung it at him as I ran to the door. From the corner of my eye, I saw him dodge to one side. The shatter and clang told me the lamp had hit the marble wall. But it delayed his gun grab long enough that I made it to the doors.

They were locked, and I hit them like a bug on a windshield, a muddy brown smear. Office workers strolling to lunch outside looked up in mild alarm at my spattered shouting and pounding visage. The driver of a cab across the street gave me an annoyed glance from behind his newspaper. A terrier heading for a hydrant ten feet from me darted away, his owner dragging him to the other side of the street.

“Mr. Carson, please—”

I spun around, stomach acid stinging my tongue and adrenaline blurring my vision. A crowd had gathered behind me on the staircase, a big gang of menacing people in black bowling shirts. It was like league night gone terribly wrong. The greasers had guns drawn, and Bing and Bowler stood glowering next to them. Checkers parted the crowd and approached. He crouched down next to where I’d slumped to the floor.

“There’s no way out, Garth, but there’s also no need to panic. Calm down, breathe easy, nobody is going to hurt you, we just want to talk to you, that’s all.”

“What about Sloan?” I gasped.

“He’s fine, Garth. He just had a little accident, but he’s better now. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up, a shower perhaps, then we can talk and work this whole thing out.” He chuckled, all friendly-like. “Boys, help Mr. Carson to his feet, all righty?”

I looked back out the doors as they stood me up, taking a last grasp at hope that somebody out there would help me. The cab zoomed away, and I felt a sudden pain in my shoulder where one of the greasers was holding me.

And just before I went beddy-bye, I caught the fuzzy image of Roger Elk holding a syringe.

Chapter 21

I
t took me a while to make out that the bright light overhead was a bare lightbulb and not the sun or some alien abductors descending on me. I had no idea how long I’d been out or where I was. On a bunk in a windowless cinder-block storeroom. I rolled over to the wall, my consciousness still full of glue so palpable that my mouth felt like I had just drunk Elmer’s. My eyes had no compunction to stay open, and I think I slept for a while before waking again, this time more definitively. Proof positive, I sat up and looked down at my shoes, then my pants, and then my shirt and suspenders. They’d cleaned me up and changed my clothes. I was now dressed in one of their Lucky’s Speed Shop bowling shirts, baggy gray slacks with cuffs, argyle socks, and oxblood leather shoes. So much for the serenity of my sport coat, oxford shirt, chinos, and sneakers uniform. I looked ridiculous, of course, but reasoned retro clothes were the only kind they had around. I noted my wallet and the contents of my pockets in a plastic bucket by the bed. They had been thoroughly searched.

While I suppose I should have felt betrayed, I felt mostly like a fool. It all made sense now. Well, sort of. Pretty big coincidence that Elk just happened by at the police barracks out there in Jersey, huh? Or, gee, could it have been that “Cola Woman” Sloan reported back to his superiors that there was a witness, and Roger swept in to do a little damage control? I suppose it turned out quite conveniently for the retro barrister that he could pull my strings from day one. My squirrelly friend and I were two of a kind: puppets. You might think being played for a fool would make me ashamed. What it did was fill me with resentment, anger, and, ultimately, resolve.

I looked beyond my shoes at the bucket. I picked it up and started to paw through my effects, numbly putting my credit cards, license, and registration back into my bifold. I picked up the
Palihnic Insurance Investigations
pen, eyed it thoughtfully, and clipped it into my shirt pocket. It must have been in my jacket, still there from our late-night car ride out to Brooklyn. I wondered briefly if Nicholas still looked like Uncle Fester and where his search for Cola Woman Sloan might have led him. Then I scooped out the change and picked up the envelope, the one I’d stuffed in my pocket before leaving home. It had been opened, and inside was a short letter, a wallet-sized blue card, and a small foil packet emblazoned with the words
FREE GIFT!
This was not my new bank card. The letter read:

Welcome to the Dudco™ Shoppers Club! Enclosed is your membership card, which
. . . I tossed the letter aside. Just what I needed, junk mail in jail.

I got to thinking, and picked up the letter again. There was the symbol of a songbird at the top.

. . .
entitles
you to an
electrifying
array of discounts at local retailers displaying our emblem. Nobody wants to pay more than they have to, and this card is
your self-defense
against paying full retail. Each card is personalized and contains your secret code. Dudco™ is proud to be able to offer you this service and the
security
of knowing that we will
protect
your personal information from junk-mail lists. So enjoy the benefits of your membership, and with
just two strokes of the card
free yourself from the onslaught of price gouging like
one, two, three
.
FREE! Also, please find enclosed the therapeutic shoe magnet insoles, free with this introductory offer! Put them in your shoes and enjoy immediate satisfaction and the therapeutic
PROTECTION
these magnets provide!

The postmark was New York, the songbird cartoon at the top,
Dudco—
this was Dudley’s handiwork.

I ripped open the foil packet and found two small brown plastic semicircles that felt like floppy refrigerator magnets. Didn’t look very high-tech, but I dutifully took off my shoes and inserted them at the heels. After relacing the shoes, I stood up and found the insoles comfortable enough.

I picked up the blue card and held it up to the light. It wasn’t completely opaque, and I could make out a matrix of microelectronics under and around the magnetic strip. The card was so small and thin, I wondered if even Dudley could have packed a punch in such a small thingamabob. Then again, you hear tell of the inquisitive types who get electrocuted by tinkering with the innards of disposable flash cameras. And his little antitheft devices packed quite a wallop.

If the Dudco™ Card really was a weapon, I’d have to test it. I debated what to try zapping with the card. I decided against the lightbulb, not knowing what would happen if I put a static charge into a 120-volt AC system. An electrician I’m not, but for all I knew, the card might backfire. Likewise, I also decided against my bed frame, unsure of whether there was some taboo against metal-zapping. I mean, assuming it was like other Dudley products, it was meant to zonk people. I wondered how it was the card wouldn’t buzz
me
, but reasoned it might have something to do with the insoles, which perhaps worked as grounding wires or something.

The cinder-block wall would at least absorb an electrical charge, so I decided it was to be the test subject. The underlined type in the letter—
just two strokes of the card
—indicated to me that I was supposed to draw the card between two fingers, count
one, two, three
, and then point. An arrow on the front of the card marked the electromagnetic muzzle. I hoped.

Understandably nervous, I gave it a try, the card trembling in my outstretched hand. The card was from Dudley, all right. It glowed blue for a second and then went out. But nothing happened. I assumed, I prayed, that the reason it didn’t discharge was that the target had to be human. Then again, maybe the card was a dud, pun intended.

Footsteps clip-clopped down the hall and stopped in front of my door. I ditched the card in the pocket of my bowling shirt and sat back on the bed. A key turned in the lock and the door opened to reveal Roger Elk, with the speakeasy doorman right behind.

“Good, you’re awake,” Roger Elk chimed. “Time for a chat? Wait outside, Mortimer.” Mr. Heavy went back out into the hall reluctantly, and Roger sat down next to me. “Let me just say, Garth, that I’m sorry for having to abuse your trust.”

“Oh, hey, don’t worry about it, Roger. What’s an attorney for if not to put his client in harm’s way at every turn?”

“You have every right to be angry, Garth.”

“In case you don’t get it, Roger, I hardly feel that I need your approval to be angry.”

“Yes, you’ve been a pawn. But once you stumbled upon Pipsqueak and wouldn’t stay away . . .” He shrugged. “You know, you didn’t have to go to the Church of Jive. But what’s done is done. You did what you had to do, and we’ve done what we had to do. But know this: There’s a lot at stake here, Garth.”

“Fine, Roger. You people are all worked up over a conspiracy theory whereby the government is brainwashing everybody with color TV and stealing Omaha cow anuses in late-night raids. Whatever. Believe what you want. But you’re not getting Pipsqueak until I know why you want him.”

Roger Elk eyed me a moment, calculating. “Very well, Garth, I won’t try to sell you. From your position, I’m sure it’s hard for you to understand the scope and seriousness of what’s going on here. Now try to see things from our perspective. We need that puppet to prevent a terrible threat to the lives and well-being of millions upon millions of Americans. Tell me, Garth. What lengths would you go to if you had the ability to stop a worldwide catastrophe?”

“I’m listening.”

“Okay, let’s get to the gist. I’ll tell you why the squirrel is important. But first we need to know that you can take us to the squirrel.”

My chest tightened. If they were willing to tell me the big secret, they probably had no intention of granting me parole. Options? Life in prison? More likely a mud nap. “I not only
can
take you to that goddamn squirrel but
will
. If you tell me.”

Roger Elk nodded quietly for a moment and then slapped his knees. “I’ll start from the beginning.” He stood and leaned against the door.

“Good. But remember, I sat in on one of those ‘church’ services, so I know about the color-TV bit,” I admonished. “Tie in why you need the squirrel to combat color-flash hypnosis and what this has to do with naturopaths.”

“As you wish, but I will defer the technical aspects to Dr. Fulham. You know, the man who—”

“Right, the checked suit.”

“The checked suit, yes. So I’ll condense. While the U.S. and its allies were developing and perfecting color-flash technology, the Soviets were developing countermeasures using sound to cancel the effects. There is a long history in Asia of using vibrational medicine in place of the more invasive acupuncture, and the Russian experiments found that certain tones or compilations of resonant frequencies affect the sphenoid bone. This small bone in the skull cradles the sella turcia, a cup that holds the pituitary gland. A neural-hormone reaction is triggered in the hypothalamus—that’s where sleep, body temperature—”

“I get the idea. You think you can cleanse the mind of the color flash with sound. The same way people like Tyler Loomis think they can cure nail fungus and migraines with tuning forks.”

“Allow me to continue. The hypothalamus—while not necessarily the transmitter—is the emitter of the individual’s chi or odic force.”

“Life force?”

“Yes. These tones that we’re trying to produce—the ones the Russians developed—can’t be reproduced with tuning forks. The wave pattern produced by forks is wrong for the phonophoresic effect. But there are special tuning
spheres
, which, when toned in a particular sequence, create just the right tones at just the right frequency. They’re made of a special hydrogen metal that only the Soviets were able to create.”

“Hydrogen metal? It doesn’t exist.” I once asked Angie how come there aren’t any solid forms of some of the other elements that jewelers might use. I suggested hydrogen, and she said that while scientists had tried, nobody had succeeded in making solidified hydrogen.

“At very low temperatures, hydrogen goes from liquid directly to a frozen liquid. At higher temperatures, it turns to gas. The Carnegie Institute failed in its attempt to use ‘diamond anvils’ to forge hydrogen using extreme pressures, and some said if it exists at all it may only be found deep within the gravitational crush of Jupiter. But, using controlled, underground hydrogen-bomb explosions, the Soviets succeeded. That is, after some underground tests, they discovered an abundance of perfectly round hydrogen globes. Spheres.”

“Stable at normal air pressure and room temperature?”

“Yes. They are opaque, with a vibrational quality enhanced by their superconductivity. Bookerman was formerly a Soviet technician involved in tests of the hydrogen spheres on prisoners. He effected his escape from Russia in 1958 with three spheres.”

“And immediately set about hosting a children’s cartoon show? He doesn’t even have an accent.”

“Like any number of Russians involved in secret work, he was taught to converse fluently in English. He used to interpret clandestine recordings of U.S. scientists. Puppeteering was a folk art taught to him in Siberia by his father, a circus performer. Making puppets from animals and using them to illustrate folklore was a traditional pastime in his Yakut clan. When he decided to take the spheres and escape the Soviet Union, he hid them in the puppets to help get them out of the country. And upon arriving in the United States, he couldn’t very well go back to his previous line of work. So he used his hobby and his family background in the circus to make a living as General Buster. Did you hold the puppet in your hands?”

“Yes.”

“Notice anything, ah, unusual about it?”

“Head was very light. Bookerman hid the spheres in the heads of his puppets.”

“Exactly. Three sizes of spheres, three sizes of puppets. This was not only a convenient hiding place but also ample protection from being struck by a hard object. The fur and batting acted as a cushion that would keep them from toning accidentally. The spheres are extremely light, and so nobody ever noticed anything unusual about the puppets. Because they belonged to him and were kept in his dressing room, this hiding place seemed ideal. When the show was canceled suddenly, he went to the studio, only to find himself locked out of his dressing room and the puppets confiscated. He tried to get the puppets in a legal battle but lost. That’s where I met Bookerman. I’m his attorney.” Roger Elk put his hand on my shoulder. “Satisfied, Garth?”

“But you already had two spheres. Why get so hot and bothered over the one in Pipsqueak?”

“The desired effect can only be obtained using all three sizes. The Soviets tested hundreds of spheres before they found that these three were perfectly matched. For the longest time, only Loomis and maybe one or two others—who are now dead—knew that the spheres were in the puppets.”