Stuffed (23 page)

Chapter 25

I
awoke slowly, and I had to work at making my eyes open.

“This is actually rather opportune, don’t you think?” It sounded like Agent Renard.

“I don’t get you,” a grumpy voice replied. “How can we know he won’t bolt?”

“Mr. Park, I think he’ll make the perfect go-between. If he runs, either we’ll shoot him or they’ll shoot him. He’s expendable.”

Mr. Park harrumphed. I could make out two blurs seated across from me, and I felt the scrunching of soft leather upholstery on my cheek. I was in the limo, and it was in motion. Had I been out moments or hours? The sense of lost time made me feel a little panicky, and I forced myself upright. My neck felt like a Slinky, and it took both hands to hold my head still.

“Honestly, Mr. Carson,” Renard tsked. “Why do you insist on getting yourself killed? Why couldn’t you have stayed home with your collection?”

I slumped to steady my head against the seat back, squinting my eyes into focus. Yup, I was in the limo, two goose-neck lamps illuminating my captors. Across from me: Renard in his trench coat and blue plaid porkpie with the red feather. His sleepy eyes considered me like I was a pesky alarm clock. And the pinstriped Asian? Pinky ring, gold cuff links, sideburns, a pompadour, and tinted, oversize black-framed glasses. You got it: Smiler, a.k.a. Mr. Park.

To my right and left were two Asian thugs in turtlenecks and dark blazers. They were big and fat, looked like identical twins, and I could feel their body heat radiating. So much for Sweater and Vest.

Tinted windows kept me from getting any clue as to where we were, though I could feel the limo rumbling over cobblestones. That meant we were probably still in the city, doubtless in one of the older parts of town. Great, like down by the river. I was mildly encouraged by the absence of any cement bags in the limo, though that talk of shooting somebody had me on alert.

“Now, you’re going to be a good messenger, aren’t you, Mr. Carson? We have a little job for you, and if you do it well, perhaps you’ll survive.”

I cleared my head. “Where’s the horn?”

“Here.” Renard held out a painted red box decorated in Chinese designs, the kind you get when you buy a jade curio in any of a gazillion dime stores throughout Chinatown. “But what do you want with it? Honestly, your predilection for getting in trouble astounds me.”

“I . . . I don’t want. I don’t want anybody to have it,” I heard myself say. I suddenly felt like an idiot. Here I was, deep in it again. For what?

Smiler did his best to pretend I wasn’t there.

Renard graced me with a slim, patronizing grin.

“Let me guess. You felt the kving-kie was here, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“Please, Carson. You held the horn, you blew out those windows, you killed Flip. Hideous freak. At least
that
connection is broken.”

“No, it wasn’t me. That’s not possible.”

“Oh, but it is possible. Why on earth do you think everybody wants to get their hands on a tiny cow horn?”

He lifted the box, and I stared at it, eyes watering. He continued.

“The truth is, Mr. Carson, once you held and used the kving-kie—”

“Yeah, I know, I supposedly have a connection.”

He nodded. “Why else did you throw yourself on the hood of the car? Hmm? And this is precisely why there are so few kving-kie left. Ancient Asians used them in battle, yes, but the power was corrupting, and they fought tirelessly among themselves just to possess the horn. And yet, one by one, the horns found their way to the ocean. All it takes to destroy the ridiculous horn and its power is to throw it in salt water. Rather fragile, all said and done.”

“Were you there that night, at the mansion? Did you drag me out of that fire?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Had I known that deal was happening, I would have had the whole department come down on it. In the end, the result would have been the same. A broken bird clutching a stick in a plastic evidence bag, in my hands.”

“And you and Smiler here”—I gestured at his companion, who frowned at his nickname—“how long have you been working together?”

“Not long. This was purely a crime of opportunity on my part. Who but a DEC agent such as myself knows how valuable a commodity this horn is, what the market will bear, and the right black-marketeers for this sort of thing?”

“Enough!” Park barked. “Tell him nothing more, Renard.”

I didn’t like his tone. Smiler already had me for dead.

Sitting there in the limo between the two Asian hoods, I rode on with just the sound of the rumbling cobblestones under me. I stared at the red Chinese box on Renard’s lap, and in so doing somehow cleared my head of the cobwebs. Which got me to wonder why I’d passed out. Hell, just like Bret Fletcher passed out at Gunderson’s.

That’s right. I had my hand on the bell jar when Bret passed out. Did I make that happen? And did Renard make me pass out in the same way?

It was then that the limo came to a stop. The driver came around to the back of the car and opened the door for Smiler and Renard. Then the two turtlenecks and I got out, more or less as one unit. They now had matching silver automatics in their hands. No mix-matching here. These two were color-coordinated all the way.

It was night and we were by the river, just as I’d feared. The Statue of Liberty was visible dead ahead. I could see ferries crisscrossing the bay and Manhattan twinkling off to the right. Warehouses blocked my view, but I could hear a highway somewhere behind me. I was in Brooklyn, in a disused port that’s usually desolate at night.

But right before me, in front of a long wooden pier, were the festive lights, whir, and fun hum of a traveling carnival. I’d seen them appear on Manhattan’s West Side before, near the Intrepid museum. Brightly twirling rides, rattling spook houses, midway games, funnel-cake stands, and the screams of spinning thrill-seekers. Then just as suddenly they pack up and vanish, the litter of paper cotton-candy cones and ride tickets the only evidence of their passing. But tonight, crowds were streaming in and out of the carnival, and my companions kept their guns underneath their jackets.

The chauffeur with the handlebar mustache was standing nearby. I suddenly remembered that he had said something to me just before I fainted. But the spring in my brain’s Victrola was wound down, and his voice played back like a bassoon in a tar pit. What was it he said? I scrutinized his sunglassed visage but got nothing for it.

The turtlenecks clasped hands on my shoulders and marched me in the wake of Renard and Smiler, who growled in a Far Eastern tongue to a third turtleneck, waiting at the entrance to the carnival.

We were quickly engulfed in the controlled mayhem, the surrounding gaiety oblivious to the squadron of thugs marching through their midst. The smell of popcorn and candy apples turned my stomach, the garish wail of piped-in calliope music from the carousel an irritating counterpoint to the laughter and shrieks. Of all these people, wasn’t there someone, anyone to intervene? They were too busy having fun, toting gaudy plush toys, doing the ring toss, working the crane games, waiting in line for the Sky Diver. Heavily tattooed ride operators were too harassed processing customers, game operators too consumed with suckering the witless. Where in the heck were we going? For a jump in the Moon Bounce?

As I scanned my surroundings, I gratefully noted the lack of any sideshow attractions, Flip the Penguin Boy in particular.

At the far end of the carnival, backed up against the pier, was a spook house. It had a fake stone facade, like a castle, with the words
CASTLE CREEP
in Halloween orange blazoned across the top. The lights around the sign were dark. Loudspeakers that probably reverberated with eerie noises were silent. The ride’s cars: idle. No carny was in attendance, and there was a yellow rope across the entrance, a sign hanging from it that read
CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. THANK YOU!

The lead turtleneck lifted the rope and held it for the rest of us to pass under.

I never liked spook houses, and this one even less. They were always so lame. You get in a rickety car and half the time they get stuck, whereupon some smelly grease monkey with
Cooter
stitched on his coveralls has to come in and push your car back on the tracks. A light pops on, there’s a raggedy statue of a werewolf. A strobe light flickers on a wall painted with goofy ghosts. Usually, one of the “boos” is a loud noise that’s more annoying than anything else. Or maybe a burst of air that hits you right in the eyes. They tend to be musty and ill-maintained, and those sparks jumping from the track are the real scary part. At any moment you expect to get electrocuted, for real. And when finally you emerge, banging through the doors at the end, you say, “Is that it?” It is roughly equivalent to ordering a specialty sandwich at a fast-food joint. What you unwrap is haphazard, undersize, and nothing like the picture up on the menu.

Would that I were a kid again and would come out merely disappointed. This time I feared I might come out dead.

The wiry chauffeur was walking close behind me.
That’s right—he called me by name when I was on the limo hood.
I glanced back at him as I ducked under the rope, forming a mental picture of him. That’s when it hit me: Pete Durban!

My brain bulged with the possible combinations of events that might unfold with Undercover Agent Peter Durban at my back. Perhaps this should have been reassuring. It wasn’t. Not after what happened two years ago. Was he armed with cone snails?

We pushed through the doors, walking between the car tracks. I recognized that musty smell, that odor of ozone given off by sparks from the cars. There was a light at the far end, two men holding flashlights flanking one in the middle with a suitcase. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could make out the oval of the track and the silhouette of four statues or “boos” at each corner. I couldn’t make out what they were, but I really wasn’t concerned about that. I was concerned about those three men.

I was thrust forward. Renard pressed the Chinese box into my left hand.

“I warn you, Mr. Carson, don’t toy with us,” Smiler hissed. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with, believe me.” I glanced at Renard, who was sweating almost as much as I was.

“So it’s a swap?” I looked back at Smiler. “The horn, for money?”

His answer wasn’t one. “When he puts down the suitcase, hand him the box. Come back here with the suitcase. Renard will accompany you, to validate the transfer. And to keep an eye on you.”

The box shook slightly in my trembling hand. I’d really put my foot in it this time.

“You forgot about the part where you let me go when I get back.” What is it with the wisecracks just when I can least afford them?

Smiler unwrapped a piece of Fruit Stripe gum and started to chomp on it. “See you when you get back.”

“Can I have a piece?”

Smiler frowned.

“A piece of gum.” My mouth was filled with the sand of dread, and I was dying for some bubblegum. “I’m all out.”

Smiler actually smiled, slowly unwrapping a plank of gum and placing it on my tongue. It was like he was giving me last rites. Sacrament of the Eucharist in the form of Fruit Stripe gum.

The turtlenecks gave me a shove, and I found myself walking toward the three men at the far side of the spook house, Renard just footsteps behind me. I assumed he must have a gun. Heck, everybody but me seemed to have one.

Buoy horns sounded in the distance, and I could hear the river lapping against the pier just behind the spook house.

I struggled with an internal dialogue, the clomp of my feet on the wood floor like a metronome counting down the seconds. Dead man walking.

Just do what they say, Garth, and this’ll all be over, for good. Yeah, over for good is right. They can’t let you live once you’ve witnessed this crime. How else to keep you from talking?

Clomp, clomp, clomp . . . I passed a witch on my right, stock still in the dark holding a broom.

Pete was there. He must have a plan, right? The place must be crawling with agents with night scopes and plenty of firepower, ready to pounce. Oh, yeah, great, firepower. With me in the middle. Again.

Clomp, clomp, clomp . . . I passed what looked like a group of crouching goblins.

My hand holding the box was still trembling and more than a little sweaty. With my left thumb, I flipped the catch open on the box.

Clomp, clomp, clomp . . . I passed a large boo on my left, which was covered with a sheet. A ghost, I guessed.

Clearly, I was certifiable, ready for a rubber rumpus room at the booby hatch. I was pinning my hopes on a magic horn? They were imagining this. I was imaging this.

How I wished I were, and that I was still with Rodney at the Golden Frog. Had I chosen the Golden Frog because I sensed it was close to the horn?

I flashed on the image of those flaming gazelle heads, the windows exploding, me just standing there.

I pried the box lid open and shoved my thumb inside. As I touched the cold, bumpy horn, I shivered.

Orderlies? Get the straitjacket.