Tzimmes Cracked Corn (And I Don’t Care)
A Spontoon Island story
© 2022 Walter Reimer
(Characters courtesy of M. Mitch Marmel, J.T. Urie and E.O. Costello. Thanks!)

Thumbnail art by  susandeer


19.


Brush:

I hang up da phone, an’ th’ Inspector asks, “What was that, Sergeant?”

“Ministry o’ Public Works, Sir. Reportin’ a incident at th’ New Haven Embassy.”

Th’ Inspector raises one eyebrow. “Anything criminal, Sergeant?”

“No, Sir. Courtesy call, in case anyone asks us.”

Th’ Inspector glances at his briefing notes before askin’, “What happened?”

“Ministry reported what they calls a ‘overpressure,’ an’ it went up th’ sewers an’ flooded th’ place.” Th’ Inspector nods, an’ jots a note. “They tol’ me they’d sent a guy ‘round ta apologize fer th’ damage ta th’ Embassy. As a courtesy.”

“I see.”

“Th’ guy said they managed ta keep th’ other buildings on th’ street from gettin’ damaged.”

Th’ Inspector nods. Got a sort of funny look on his muzzle. “Did the caller from the Ministry say what was damaged, Sergeant?”

‘Yes, Sir. Th’ guy sez that th’ ceilin’s were painted.”

“Painted.”

“Yes, Sir. With spraint.”

Th’ Inspector nods, gets ta his hooves and gets his hat. He walks right past me, mumbling sumpin’ ‘bout confession again. His voice sounds sorta strained.

If I didn’t know th’ Inspector like I do, I’d say he was tryin’ hard not ta laugh.


***


Reggie:

It took three days for Mrs. Rapani to go over the Buckhorn’s proposal to buy the Spontoonies’ surplus kelp, and while I was waiting I appeared to have gained quite the entourage. There were no less than twelve furs tailing me. I recognized at least one of them as the bookie’s agent from the Grand Casino, so surmising that the rest were also connected with the sporting community of the Spontoons was rather easy.

(. . . That, and the rather loud checked suits they were wearing. Some things seem to be universal.)

So, when I got a call from the Ministry requesting my presence, I had Lodge lay out my best meeting-with-government-chappies suit, and set off for the Althing offices. While I was on the way, I decided to play to the crowd, just a little.

I started walking down the street, whistling something from one of the latest West End shows, and after a few minutes I suddenly stopped and turned.

There was a sudden scuffle, rather like roaches will do when you step into a darkened room and switch the lights on, and I was treated to the sight of ten furs attempting to look casual while window-shopping. Even with the furtive jostling for position, they might have carried it off, too, were they not all looking into a plumbing-supply firm's emporium.

Though mind you, Paris as always sets fashion.

Another pair were trying to hide behind each other, which might have impressed one of those mathematics chappies who tries to square a circle or explain how two things can inhabit the same space at the same time.

I turned around, pretending that I hadn’t seen them, and strolled off down the street. I had somewhere to be, after all.

After a minute or two, with the Ministry in sight, I said, “One . . . two . . . three . . . RED LIGHT!” and turned abruptly.

Three of the chappies had frozen in mid-step, in the best traditions of the game. Another was standing and reading a paper. Rather awkwardly, since his paws were empty. Nearly all of the rest were trying to hide under the same bush, if the number of tails and attached rear ends was any indication.

The final sporting fellow was holding two palm fronds and trying valiantly to disguise himself as a tree while standing in the middle of the street.

I would have spent the entire day leading them all on a merry chase, but I had a pressing engagement with a government minister, so I turned my back on them again and went into the building.

Mister Stubato met me in the front office, and as we shook paws the cat said, “Mrs. Rapani asked me to meet you out here and bring you right in.” He smiled. “This way, please,” and he led me into another office.

Mrs. Rapani was a rather matronly otter, and she looked up from talking with a larger mel of her species as we came in. “Ah, Mister Buckhorn.” She stood and we shook paws, and I was shown to a seat. Mister Stubato and the other otter took seats as well. She gestured at the fourth member of our group with a paw. “This is Mister Vaimasina, of the Tillamook Ministry for Agriculture.” I shook paws with the fellow, who had a good strong grip without him trying to crush my fingers. “Thank you for coming so promptly.”

I smiled. “It’s no imposition, Ma’am. I’m entirely at your disposal.”

She smiled and placed one paw on the FRB proposal. “I’ve read over your proposal, Mister Buckhorn. It’s very well-written, and has the potential to be profitable for both your company and the Spontoons.”

I nodded.

The smile fled. “Unfortunately, I will not be able to endorse your proposal for the Althing’s approval.”


***


Willow:

Sergeant Brush rather helpfully called to let me know about the unfortunate accident at the Embassy, and I could hear Grace giggling. “Enjoying yourself?”

(“Absolutely.”)

“Good. So now we wait another few days before we spring the next caper on them.”


***


Grace:

Despite my personal desire to see a smoking hole in Meeting Island where the Red Fist Embassy once sat, I had to admit that I was enjoying myself. And my junior partner’s –

(“A-hem!”)

Junior partner’s decision to use each prank to highlight some sort of moral lesson, however obscurely the plumbing malfunction might be linked to the adage ‘cleanliness is next to Godliness,’ made it that much more palatable to me.

It remained to be seen what moral lesson the next ‘prank’ would teach.

Still, despite those evil bastards not being sent to their just and wholly deserved reward, they were being kept busy and weren’t able to bother either Da or Rosalie. I wondered if Willow was able to keep this up, or if she would call upon Reggie’s expertise in japery for advice or ideas.

Just then Reggie came in.

From my vantage point in the back of Willow’s mind, I saw the look on his face.


***


Willow:

“Reggie? What’s wrong?”


***


Lodge:

I heard Mrs. Buckhorn’s question and arrived in the drawing room in time to see the expression on Mr. Buckhorn’s face.

Ah.

It was an expression of long and grim familiarity to me, since I have been in Mr. Buckhorn’s employ ever since he left Britain to travel through various countries, and various states of inebriation, before settling here in the Spontoons and eventually meeting the future Mrs. Buckhorn. A notable week in Paris immediately presented itself in my memory, which by the time I succeeded in placing Mr. Buckhorn aboard the train for Marseilles the various habitues of la Rive Gauche had ample reason to curse “le diable anglais.”

I swiftly ascertained that I had the key to the liquor cabinet firmly in my pocket, and trusted to Mrs. Buckhorn to ensure that her husband did not attempt to drink the archipelago dry.




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