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And On That Note
A Spontoon Island story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
(Various characters are copyright their respective owners.)
Thumbnail art by
Warren
Four.
The phone rang, and Sergeant Brush picked up the pawset. “Detectin’ Bureau.”
It was the desk officer out front. “Hey, Sarge? Got someone here to see you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, one of your brothers.”
Orrin Brush’s ears swiveled. “He ain’t unner arrest, is he?” At his own desk, Inspector Stagg’s ears perked and the whitetail buck looked up.
“Nah. He just wants to see you.”
“Tell ‘im I’m comin’.” Brush hung up and got to his feet. “’Scuse me a moment, Sir. One of me brudders wants t’talk to me.” Stagg nodded, and the fox left the office. He stepped into the lobby of the Constabulary building, and stopped.
Had he been drinking coffee or eating anything at the time, he would have choked to death. As it was, he started laughing after a second to take it all in.
“It ain’t funny, Orrin,” B’onss grumbled. He didn’t actually growl, knowing that his older brother might box his ears for it.
Or worse, tell Ma on him.
B’onss was wearing his best suit. Of course, his best suit had been bought for him a few years earlier, and the tod had been growing. It now fitted him tightly, but not to the point that it placed undue stress on the stitches. At least, B’onss hoped not.
He had also bathed, and his usual untidy mop of poorly barbered headfur had been slicked down with his father’s pomade and combed to almost mathematical perfection. He smelled, slightly, of his father’s cologne, something that the elder Brush only used when he was attending a Euro funeral.
“So what’s wit’ th’ monkey suit?” Brush asked, trying to keep from laughing.
“I’m goin’ out tonight, over to th’ Grand,” his little brother replied.
“Why’d yer come here, then? An’ where’s K’nutt?”
“K’nutt’s still over at Luchow’s, an’ – an’ can I get ya to tie my tie for me?” and the younger tod held out a strip of red silk that looked like it had spent more than a few days wrapped around a leaking pipe. Looks didn’t deceive; it had been wrapped around a pipe, in this case one of the condenser lines connected to their grandfather’s still. ‘Sour coconut popskull’ took precedence over sartorial splendor, at least in the Brush’s longhouse.
And fumes and leakage from the condenser had given the fabric some interesting new colors and patterns.
“Uh-huh. Okeh, gimme,” and Brush took the tie in his paws. B’onss had been taught how to tie a necktie by his father, but his last attempt created what Orrin laughingly called an ‘Alcatraz Ascot.’ He’d removed it before the younger fox had strangled himself.
K’nutt had also been taught to tie a necktie, but his last attempt had ended up tying his wrists together behind his back. The ‘Son of Houdini,’ one of the performers at Casino Island’s amusement center, had asked K’nutt to duplicate the feat, but the tod couldn’t recall how he’d managed it.
Orrin buttoned the top button of B’onss’ collar, not without difficulty or complaints or the desk officer’s chuckling, and tied the necktie before stepping back to take in the entire picture. “Yez look pretty,” he laughed as his brother blushed and muttered in an annoyed tone. “Now beat it, an’ if yez get drunk, don’t come home. Ma won’t be happy.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the younger brother assured the older, and B’onss left the building, headed for the water taxi rank on the south side of Meeting Island.
As he walked past Luchow’s he nearly collided with K’nutt, who was standing on the sidewalk chewing blissfully and clearly enjoying his contest winnings. He grinned and asked, “H-h-h-hey! Ya seen me brudder? “
“Knock it off, ya lamebrain,” B’onss growled.
“Knock whut off? Y-y-y-you ain't wearin' a h-h-hat.” K’nutt leaned forward and sniffed. “Ya goin' to a f-f-funeral?”
“Yers, if ya don't zip it.” He raised his paw, K’nutt scuttled off, and B’onss resumed his walk to the water taxis.
Reaching the taxi rank, he took his time getting into the water taxi, and sat gingerly as the boat was cast off, painfully aware of the strain a too-abrupt movement might put on the seams of his suit. As the taxi made its way past Moon Island, B'onss had a little time to think.
He didn’t have much money, with most of what was in his pockets saved from his pay at Luchow’s and the rest from odd jobs around the longhouse. It wouldn’t be enough to buy a dinner at the Grand, so he would get something before he entered the hotel. The young tod-fox wasn’t really old enough to drink alcohol, despite repeated attempts to try the product of the family still.
And the various punishments that usually followed such attempts.
The doorman at the Grand, a bear that looked like he lifted engine blocks in his spare time, stopped the fox as B’onss entered the Grand. “Hey, kid,” the doorman said, “where’s the funeral?”
B’onss looked up at the bear and said, “Ha ha, not funny. I gotta ticket t’the show tonight.”
“Oh yeah? Show me first,” the bear said in a clearly disbelieving tone.
The tod dug into a pocket and fished out the small square of pasteboard. The bigger hotels on Casino Island – the Grand, Shepherd’s, the Marleybone – would give these out to passers-by in an effort to attract business during the off-season. “Here y’are.”
“Huh. Okay, Champ,” the bear said. “Show doesn’t start till seven.”
“Gee, t’anks.”
The Grand’s lobby was rectangular, with the front desk, stairs and elevator along one long wall, the front door to the desk clerk’s left, and the entrance to the casino to his right just past the elevators. The other long wall offered the entrances to the hotel’s restaurant and lounge, with the lounge being where the show was going to be. The fourth wall led out to the hotel’s gardens and pool.
The huge clock behind the front desk read 6:30.
B’onss wandered around, poking his muzzle into the restaurant and shaking his head as the maître d’ approached before glancing through the engraved glass windows of the lounge. Finally he walked past the entrance to the gardens and the pool toward the casino.
The idea of hotels having a pool struck him as stupid. Why swim in a pool, when there was the lagoon and the whole ocean to swim and relax in?
The two furs flanking the door to the casino eyed each other as the short fox in an ill-fitting suit walked in and stood looking around. One, a fox like the stranger, cleared his throat and said, “Good evening, Sir. Come to try your luck?”
“I don’t know how t’gamble.”
Only years of learning to look impassive enabled the pair of bouncers to not grin at each other. “Oh,well,” the fox said, “it’s not that hard. It’s just numbers – you know, math.”
B’onss stuck out his chest – at least, as far as his suit permitted without bursting a button. “Sure I knows math! I gotta head fer figgers real gruesome!”
“Then you shouldn’t have any trouble at all,” the bouncer said. He glanced around the floor of the casino and pointed at a long table that had a wheel at one end. “Go over to the cashier, get a few chips, and try your luck at the roulette table.”
“Okeh,” B’onss said after a moment’s consideration, and he went over to the cashier as the two bouncers finally relaxed their self-control and grinned at each other.
The Spontoonie shell was valued at one American dollar, which made currency conversions for the tourists easy. “How many you want, Sir?” the well-dressed weasel femme asked.
“Gimme two,” and with two one-dollar chips in paw, he headed over to the roulette table.
The croupier looked past the two habitués who were trying to work on their systems and greeted B’onss as he walked up. “Good evening, Sir,” the portly rat said. “Place your bet, please.”
“Um, ah, er, uhh . . . “ the young fox drawled as he surveyed the combination of numbers and colors. “There ya go,” he finally said, placing one of his two chips on 00. It was one of two numbers colored green, and green meant Go.
The croupier spun the wheel and after a moment dropped a small white ball in. It danced and clattered around, ricocheting from one numbered point to the other, and as the wheel slowed down the ball found its resting place.
00.
The two fellows who had been working on refining their various systems suddenly sat up as the rat said in a surprised tone, “We have a winner,” and whisked away B’onns’ chip. He raked in the other chips before placing four new chips, three bearing the number 10 and one the number 5, in front of B’onss. “Care to try your luck again, Sir?”
“Um, well, I dunno,” the young tod ventured. He glanced around and looked at the clock. “The show don’t start till seven . . . “
“Oh, you’re here for the show?” the rat asked. “You still have time to try again.”
“Hm . . . sure, okeh,” and B’onss put all four of his new chips on 00 again. “There you are.”
The two other furs did some furious calculations, and placed their bets. One crossed himself as the rat set the wheel spinning again.
The ball danced and bounced as it had the first time before settling down as the wheel stopped.
00.
The rat just stood there, frozen.
One of the other furs at the table started slowly beating his head on the table, muttering, “Fourteen hundred to one” repeatedly. The other just seemed to sag in his chair, mumbling brokenly.
B’onss asked, “Did I win?”
“Huh?” the rat asked. He gave a little start at the sight of the ball resting in its niche and said, “Yeah, kid, you win.” The four chips were raked in with the other bets, and the croupier slid three rectangular tiles and three chips over to B’onss. “Do you – you want to try again? Sir?” he asked, eyeing the pit boss.
That worthy was looking on with a concerned expression.
“Nah, I ain’t got time,” B’onss said, gathering up his winnings and heading for the cashier. “I wanna get a good seat for the show. ‘Sides, I only got enough money for an Orca-Cola.”
The rat felt his ears go back. Not from mention of the soft drink (one of the least-appreciated exports from the Sea Bear Republic), but at the reaction of the hotel’s owners that he’d been on duty when some random Spontoonie had walked in and won over a thousand American dollars.
“Here you are, honey,” the cashier said, batting her eyelashes at B’onss. “What are you going to do with all that?”
“Dunno,” the young tod said as he stuffed the wad of money into a pocket. “Mebbe buy two Orca-Colas. No more than that, though; I got limits, y’see.”
Even the bouncers stared at him as he walked out and went across the lobby to the lounge.
There were only a few couples at the various tables, so he chose one close to the stage and sat down slowly and carefully, mindful of the strain on his trousers. A waitress brought him an Orca-Cola, with ice and a straw, and he sipped at it frugally as the clock reached seven.
The stage bore a piano, and scattered applause arose as a canine in a tuxedo came out and tapped the stand microphone. “Good evening, everyone,” the master of ceremonies said, “and welcome to the Hotel Grand Spontoon.” A few more people clapped as the house lights dimmed and the stage spotlights brightened slightly. A waitress placed a half-full martini on the piano lid and the pianist, a young feline in a suit, took his position and played a few bars of When You’re Smiling, stopping at a nod from the canine.
“Our opening act tonight is a young lady from Sea Bear Republic. She’s been making the rounds, and she’s got a great voice, so let’s give a warm welcome to – Michelle!”
B’onss joined in the applause as a young woman, a skunk with an odd fur pattern and dressed in an ankle-length gown, stepped out onto the stage. She didn’t look like a real skunk, B’onss thought; Doc Meffit was a skunk, with the stripes running down his tail. But this dame . . .
“Whoa,” he breathed, eyes widening at her tailfur.
Her tailfur was wide, expansive, and well-brushed; he racked his brain until the word luxurious surfaced in his head. He’d heard it in school, or read it in one of his older sister’s magazines, but until this moment he’d never really understood the word.
The tod sat there, slack-jawed as the skunk femme sidled up to the piano, took a sip from the waiting martini, and stepped up to the microphone as the piano began to play.
Michelle began to sing I Wish I Were in Love Again, in a soft contralto.
B’onss Karoksson sat there, letting the voice wash over him, and paid no attention to any of the words.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
A Spontoon Island story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
(Various characters are copyright their respective owners.)
Thumbnail art by
WarrenFour.
The phone rang, and Sergeant Brush picked up the pawset. “Detectin’ Bureau.”
It was the desk officer out front. “Hey, Sarge? Got someone here to see you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, one of your brothers.”
Orrin Brush’s ears swiveled. “He ain’t unner arrest, is he?” At his own desk, Inspector Stagg’s ears perked and the whitetail buck looked up.
“Nah. He just wants to see you.”
“Tell ‘im I’m comin’.” Brush hung up and got to his feet. “’Scuse me a moment, Sir. One of me brudders wants t’talk to me.” Stagg nodded, and the fox left the office. He stepped into the lobby of the Constabulary building, and stopped.
Had he been drinking coffee or eating anything at the time, he would have choked to death. As it was, he started laughing after a second to take it all in.
“It ain’t funny, Orrin,” B’onss grumbled. He didn’t actually growl, knowing that his older brother might box his ears for it.
Or worse, tell Ma on him.
B’onss was wearing his best suit. Of course, his best suit had been bought for him a few years earlier, and the tod had been growing. It now fitted him tightly, but not to the point that it placed undue stress on the stitches. At least, B’onss hoped not.
He had also bathed, and his usual untidy mop of poorly barbered headfur had been slicked down with his father’s pomade and combed to almost mathematical perfection. He smelled, slightly, of his father’s cologne, something that the elder Brush only used when he was attending a Euro funeral.
“So what’s wit’ th’ monkey suit?” Brush asked, trying to keep from laughing.
“I’m goin’ out tonight, over to th’ Grand,” his little brother replied.
“Why’d yer come here, then? An’ where’s K’nutt?”
“K’nutt’s still over at Luchow’s, an’ – an’ can I get ya to tie my tie for me?” and the younger tod held out a strip of red silk that looked like it had spent more than a few days wrapped around a leaking pipe. Looks didn’t deceive; it had been wrapped around a pipe, in this case one of the condenser lines connected to their grandfather’s still. ‘Sour coconut popskull’ took precedence over sartorial splendor, at least in the Brush’s longhouse.
And fumes and leakage from the condenser had given the fabric some interesting new colors and patterns.
“Uh-huh. Okeh, gimme,” and Brush took the tie in his paws. B’onss had been taught how to tie a necktie by his father, but his last attempt created what Orrin laughingly called an ‘Alcatraz Ascot.’ He’d removed it before the younger fox had strangled himself.
K’nutt had also been taught to tie a necktie, but his last attempt had ended up tying his wrists together behind his back. The ‘Son of Houdini,’ one of the performers at Casino Island’s amusement center, had asked K’nutt to duplicate the feat, but the tod couldn’t recall how he’d managed it.
Orrin buttoned the top button of B’onss’ collar, not without difficulty or complaints or the desk officer’s chuckling, and tied the necktie before stepping back to take in the entire picture. “Yez look pretty,” he laughed as his brother blushed and muttered in an annoyed tone. “Now beat it, an’ if yez get drunk, don’t come home. Ma won’t be happy.”
“Yeah, yeah,” the younger brother assured the older, and B’onss left the building, headed for the water taxi rank on the south side of Meeting Island.
As he walked past Luchow’s he nearly collided with K’nutt, who was standing on the sidewalk chewing blissfully and clearly enjoying his contest winnings. He grinned and asked, “H-h-h-hey! Ya seen me brudder? “
“Knock it off, ya lamebrain,” B’onss growled.
“Knock whut off? Y-y-y-you ain't wearin' a h-h-hat.” K’nutt leaned forward and sniffed. “Ya goin' to a f-f-funeral?”
“Yers, if ya don't zip it.” He raised his paw, K’nutt scuttled off, and B’onss resumed his walk to the water taxis.
Reaching the taxi rank, he took his time getting into the water taxi, and sat gingerly as the boat was cast off, painfully aware of the strain a too-abrupt movement might put on the seams of his suit. As the taxi made its way past Moon Island, B'onss had a little time to think.
He didn’t have much money, with most of what was in his pockets saved from his pay at Luchow’s and the rest from odd jobs around the longhouse. It wouldn’t be enough to buy a dinner at the Grand, so he would get something before he entered the hotel. The young tod-fox wasn’t really old enough to drink alcohol, despite repeated attempts to try the product of the family still.
And the various punishments that usually followed such attempts.
The doorman at the Grand, a bear that looked like he lifted engine blocks in his spare time, stopped the fox as B’onss entered the Grand. “Hey, kid,” the doorman said, “where’s the funeral?”
B’onss looked up at the bear and said, “Ha ha, not funny. I gotta ticket t’the show tonight.”
“Oh yeah? Show me first,” the bear said in a clearly disbelieving tone.
The tod dug into a pocket and fished out the small square of pasteboard. The bigger hotels on Casino Island – the Grand, Shepherd’s, the Marleybone – would give these out to passers-by in an effort to attract business during the off-season. “Here y’are.”
“Huh. Okay, Champ,” the bear said. “Show doesn’t start till seven.”
“Gee, t’anks.”
The Grand’s lobby was rectangular, with the front desk, stairs and elevator along one long wall, the front door to the desk clerk’s left, and the entrance to the casino to his right just past the elevators. The other long wall offered the entrances to the hotel’s restaurant and lounge, with the lounge being where the show was going to be. The fourth wall led out to the hotel’s gardens and pool.
The huge clock behind the front desk read 6:30.
B’onss wandered around, poking his muzzle into the restaurant and shaking his head as the maître d’ approached before glancing through the engraved glass windows of the lounge. Finally he walked past the entrance to the gardens and the pool toward the casino.
The idea of hotels having a pool struck him as stupid. Why swim in a pool, when there was the lagoon and the whole ocean to swim and relax in?
The two furs flanking the door to the casino eyed each other as the short fox in an ill-fitting suit walked in and stood looking around. One, a fox like the stranger, cleared his throat and said, “Good evening, Sir. Come to try your luck?”
“I don’t know how t’gamble.”
Only years of learning to look impassive enabled the pair of bouncers to not grin at each other. “Oh,well,” the fox said, “it’s not that hard. It’s just numbers – you know, math.”
B’onss stuck out his chest – at least, as far as his suit permitted without bursting a button. “Sure I knows math! I gotta head fer figgers real gruesome!”
“Then you shouldn’t have any trouble at all,” the bouncer said. He glanced around the floor of the casino and pointed at a long table that had a wheel at one end. “Go over to the cashier, get a few chips, and try your luck at the roulette table.”
“Okeh,” B’onss said after a moment’s consideration, and he went over to the cashier as the two bouncers finally relaxed their self-control and grinned at each other.
The Spontoonie shell was valued at one American dollar, which made currency conversions for the tourists easy. “How many you want, Sir?” the well-dressed weasel femme asked.
“Gimme two,” and with two one-dollar chips in paw, he headed over to the roulette table.
The croupier looked past the two habitués who were trying to work on their systems and greeted B’onss as he walked up. “Good evening, Sir,” the portly rat said. “Place your bet, please.”
“Um, ah, er, uhh . . . “ the young fox drawled as he surveyed the combination of numbers and colors. “There ya go,” he finally said, placing one of his two chips on 00. It was one of two numbers colored green, and green meant Go.
The croupier spun the wheel and after a moment dropped a small white ball in. It danced and clattered around, ricocheting from one numbered point to the other, and as the wheel slowed down the ball found its resting place.
00.
The two fellows who had been working on refining their various systems suddenly sat up as the rat said in a surprised tone, “We have a winner,” and whisked away B’onns’ chip. He raked in the other chips before placing four new chips, three bearing the number 10 and one the number 5, in front of B’onss. “Care to try your luck again, Sir?”
“Um, well, I dunno,” the young tod ventured. He glanced around and looked at the clock. “The show don’t start till seven . . . “
“Oh, you’re here for the show?” the rat asked. “You still have time to try again.”
“Hm . . . sure, okeh,” and B’onss put all four of his new chips on 00 again. “There you are.”
The two other furs did some furious calculations, and placed their bets. One crossed himself as the rat set the wheel spinning again.
The ball danced and bounced as it had the first time before settling down as the wheel stopped.
00.
The rat just stood there, frozen.
One of the other furs at the table started slowly beating his head on the table, muttering, “Fourteen hundred to one” repeatedly. The other just seemed to sag in his chair, mumbling brokenly.
B’onss asked, “Did I win?”
“Huh?” the rat asked. He gave a little start at the sight of the ball resting in its niche and said, “Yeah, kid, you win.” The four chips were raked in with the other bets, and the croupier slid three rectangular tiles and three chips over to B’onss. “Do you – you want to try again? Sir?” he asked, eyeing the pit boss.
That worthy was looking on with a concerned expression.
“Nah, I ain’t got time,” B’onss said, gathering up his winnings and heading for the cashier. “I wanna get a good seat for the show. ‘Sides, I only got enough money for an Orca-Cola.”
The rat felt his ears go back. Not from mention of the soft drink (one of the least-appreciated exports from the Sea Bear Republic), but at the reaction of the hotel’s owners that he’d been on duty when some random Spontoonie had walked in and won over a thousand American dollars.
“Here you are, honey,” the cashier said, batting her eyelashes at B’onss. “What are you going to do with all that?”
“Dunno,” the young tod said as he stuffed the wad of money into a pocket. “Mebbe buy two Orca-Colas. No more than that, though; I got limits, y’see.”
Even the bouncers stared at him as he walked out and went across the lobby to the lounge.
There were only a few couples at the various tables, so he chose one close to the stage and sat down slowly and carefully, mindful of the strain on his trousers. A waitress brought him an Orca-Cola, with ice and a straw, and he sipped at it frugally as the clock reached seven.
The stage bore a piano, and scattered applause arose as a canine in a tuxedo came out and tapped the stand microphone. “Good evening, everyone,” the master of ceremonies said, “and welcome to the Hotel Grand Spontoon.” A few more people clapped as the house lights dimmed and the stage spotlights brightened slightly. A waitress placed a half-full martini on the piano lid and the pianist, a young feline in a suit, took his position and played a few bars of When You’re Smiling, stopping at a nod from the canine.
“Our opening act tonight is a young lady from Sea Bear Republic. She’s been making the rounds, and she’s got a great voice, so let’s give a warm welcome to – Michelle!”
B’onss joined in the applause as a young woman, a skunk with an odd fur pattern and dressed in an ankle-length gown, stepped out onto the stage. She didn’t look like a real skunk, B’onss thought; Doc Meffit was a skunk, with the stripes running down his tail. But this dame . . .
“Whoa,” he breathed, eyes widening at her tailfur.
Her tailfur was wide, expansive, and well-brushed; he racked his brain until the word luxurious surfaced in his head. He’d heard it in school, or read it in one of his older sister’s magazines, but until this moment he’d never really understood the word.
The tod sat there, slack-jawed as the skunk femme sidled up to the piano, took a sip from the waiting martini, and stepped up to the microphone as the piano began to play.
Michelle began to sing I Wish I Were in Love Again, in a soft contralto.
B’onss Karoksson sat there, letting the voice wash over him, and paid no attention to any of the words.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Red Fox
Size 57 x 120px
File Size 63.5 kB
Listed in Folders
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