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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
Six.
August 22, 1939:
Interestingly, Sergeant Brush wasn’t waiting at the lunch counter when Inspector Stagg came downstairs the next morning. After waiting a few minutes, the whitetail buck was getting to his hooves to make his way to the office alone when the fox appeared. Brush had hold of one of B’onss’ ears as he walked, with K’nutt trotting along behind.
“Get a move on, ya little – Good mornin’, Inspector,” Brush said, giving B’onss a little shove forward. “And you,” he growled, and K’nutt ducked past his older brother. “Sorry t’keep you waiting, Sir.”
“It’s all right, Sergeant,” Stagg said, and he and Brush began to leave the biergarten. “Is everything all right?”
“Just a little family discussion, ya might say.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. B’onss got hisself a pass fer a musical number at th’ Grand last night,” Brush said, “an’ while he was there he tried his luck.”
Stagg swiveled one ear. “Gambling?”
“Yessir.”
“Hm. How much does he owe?”
Brush chuckled. “He don’t owe nobody. Made over a thousand, American.”
That caused both of Stagg’s ears to swivel. “Good heavens. That was the subject of the family discussion?”
“Yessir. Ma an’ Pa both had a go at him, wit’ me an’ Kara. Tol’ him about th’ evils o’ gambling.”
“Always good advice.”
Brush nodded. “Most o’ his winnings will go ta th’ family, an’ th’ rest goin’ inta his bank account.” The fox chuckled. “An’ Ma’s gonna get him a new suit. He’s outgrown his old one.”
“Sounds like it’s been well taken care of,” Stagg observed.
“Yeah, pretty much,” Brush conceded. “Hard ta get his attention at first though.”
“How so?”
“He wouldn’t stop goin’ on ‘bout this dame he saw singin’ at th’ Grand after he’d left th’ casino. Somethin’ ‘bout her tailfur.”
Franklin Stagg kept himself from smiling wryly. He hadn’t failed to notice that the oldest son of the Brush Family was also attracted to a femme’s tailfur, particularly if it was very thick and fluffy.
***
The Grand’s casino was closed.
One of the bouncers stood in front of the closed and locked doors of the gambling parlor and laconically repeated, “We’re closed” to anyone who looked as if they wanted to go in. The bull’s size and obvious musculature guaranteed that no attempt was made to brush past him.
Inside, last night’s roulette croupier’s tail was jittering nervously as he spun the wheel for the tenth time that morning. He dropped the ball, and watched the red panda mel seated at the table in the exact place where a Spontoonie fox had been the previous night.
The red panda was wearing a suit, but had set the jacket aside. He adjusted his pince-nez glasses as the ball came to a stop, and noted the number on the pad in front of him with the stub of a pencil. Ni Peng-wum then flipped through a page and a half of calculations before taking the single chip on the table, moving it to another number, and said, “Again.”
The rat gulped, picked up the ball, and set the wheel spinning again while the casino’s manager and the pit boss from the previous night looked on.
The casino manager had been perturbed by the fox’s performance the previous night; enough so, in fact, to send a runner to the office of Ni & Sons when the place opened and requesting that Peng-wum come and see for himself. The red panda had listened, checked the last inspection form from the Spontoon Althing’s Games Commission, and had taken one chip at random from the cashier before telling the croupier to start the wheel.
Finally, after eleven sessions, Peng-wum turned his pad to a blank page and started writing down a series of new calculations. He’d always been good at numbers; a copy of one ledger was on display at FBI Headquarters as an example of creative bookkeeping, and he had refused an invitation from the Max-Planck-Institut in Berlin to lecture on number theory.
He finished, looked at the result, and sat back. “I can’t find anything wrong.”
Everyone in the casino visibly relaxed.
“Five passes should have been enough to make sure,” he said as he stood up and started to put his jacket on, “but I wanted to be certain. I want one – no, two – things done.”
“Yes, Sir?” the casino manager asked.
“One, I want the Games Commission to certify the wheel again.” Despite their reputation, the Ni Family were fairly scrupulous about maintaining their gambling license. “Second, do you think you could recognize that fox again?” he asked the croupier.
“Um, yeah, I think so,” the rat replied. The pit boss nodded.
“Good.” Peng-wum straightened his tie and picked up his pad and pencil. “He’s not allowed in here.” He pointed at the manager, the boss, and the croupier. “Barred permanently. Understood?” All three nodded, and the red panda left the room.
***
The lunch crowd was a little larger than yesterday’s turnout, with a few new faces that lifted Rosie’s spirits. With such obvious tourists showing up nearly a week before the Speed Week festivities, Luchow’s and the other businesses on Spontoon might do well.
Seated at his usual reserved table in the restaurant’s biergarten, Stagg looked up and smiled as Rosie walked over, a plate of salad in one paw and a glass of ice water in the other. She set both down in front of him. “Here you are, Franneleh.”
“Thank you, Rosie.” He took a few bites as she sat down facing him. Swallowing, he asked, “Is everything all right?”
The cheetah smiled. “Yes, everything’s just fine. Why?”
“I think this may add a little more luster to the day,” and Stagg fished a telegram from his pocket and smiled as he gave it to the cheetah femme.
22AUG19390800 MSGSTART FROM ELIAS BROCK C/O F R BUCKHORN AND SONS HONOLULU HAWAII TO INSPECTOR FRANKLIN STAGG C/O SPONTOON ISLANDS CONSTABULARY MEETING ISLAND SPONTOON ISLAND INDEPENDENCIES PLEASE BE ADVISED THAT REGINALD VISCOUNT BUCKHORN WIFE AND FAMILY EN ROUTE SPONTOON STOP FOR VACATION STOP YOU MAY WANT TO ALERT THE RIOT SQUAD IF YOU HAVE ONE STOP REGARDS MSGENDS
Rosie grinned. Naturally, messages of condolence had been sent to Britain when Lord Josslyn had died, and photographs of her and Franklin’s new granddaughter had been sent to Spontoon.
The subterfuge had been Willow’s idea. Minkerton’s operative that she was, sending telegrams via Reggie’s company was an excellent way to avoid Willow’s actual identity being discovered by agents from New Haven.
Her father approved.
Letters, such as the one containing baby pictures, were sent care of the Double Lotus, Spontoon’s famous girls-only bar, using Willow’s and Rosie’s maiden names. “It’ll be a treat to see them again,” Rosie said.
“Yes, it will. Sergeant Brush laughed when I told him.”
“Oh?”
Stagg smiled. “He thought that the Buckhorn’s representative was a new one, because the Sergeant was certain that everyone in the Pacific knows by now that the Constabulary has a riot squad.” They both laughed, and the Inspector said, “Despite the situation, they should get here safely.”
“I hope so.” Rosie’s ears flicked. “I read the same papers you do.”
“Well, Reggie and Willow had nothing to do with President Long’s impeachment.” Stagg gazed down at his salad. “I would say it was hard to imagine that someone so corrupt could become the leader of a country, until I recall New Haven’s history.”
“Franklin.” He looked up and she reached across to cup the side of his face with a paw. “Don’t gnaw on your liver, dear, you know it’s bad for your stomachs.” He smiled and momentarily pressed into her paw before returning to his lunch. Leaving the telegram, Rosie got up to see if Vicky needed any help with the customers.
Spotting a familiar feline form inside the restaurant, she walked in and said, “Hello, Mooch.”
“Ah, my dear Mrs. Stagg,” A. Cadbury Mouchoir said, doffing his hat respectfully. The feline was in his usual attire, a shabby suit topped with a hat that had seen better days. “I was just about to say hello to you and the Inspector when the generous Miss Knox hailed me.”
Rosie glanced at the vixen, who said tartly, “Meaning that I caught him before he could make off with a slice of cake.” She nodded at the glass cake stand, where a chocolate layer cake robed in bright white icing reposed.
“Dishonesty is unbecoming in a member of the fairer sex, Miss Knox,” Mouchoir said, “and quite without any justification, as I was asked to stop by.”
Rosie raised an eyebrow and glanced at Vicky, who shrugged. “Well, I know I didn’t ask for you.”
“So who did?” Vicky asked.
The door to the kitchen banged open and B’onss came out, talking animatedly to K’nutt. “I’m tellin’ ya, K’nutt, she was beeeyooteefool! The most beeeyooteefool dame what I ever seen!” He spied the feline and grinned. “Heya, Mooch! I’m glad ya showed up.”
“You asked him to come here?” Rosie asked.
“Yeah,” B’onss said, nodding. “I wanna ask him how ta meet th’ girl I saw singin’ last night. I wanna meet her.”
“My dear fellow,” Mouchoir said, “if you wish to be, as the expression goes, a ‘Stage Door Johnny,’ you will be going about it all wrong.”
“All wrong?”
“Unless you have my assistance. And for the mere remuneration of a meatloaf sandwich, I shall impart Wisdom. “
B'onss waved this suggestion off. “Nah, no ya don't. I had dat taken out last year.”
“So that's where it went,” Vick said.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
A Spontoon Island story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
(Various characters are copyright their respective owners.)
Thumbnail art by
WarrenSix.
August 22, 1939:
Interestingly, Sergeant Brush wasn’t waiting at the lunch counter when Inspector Stagg came downstairs the next morning. After waiting a few minutes, the whitetail buck was getting to his hooves to make his way to the office alone when the fox appeared. Brush had hold of one of B’onss’ ears as he walked, with K’nutt trotting along behind.
“Get a move on, ya little – Good mornin’, Inspector,” Brush said, giving B’onss a little shove forward. “And you,” he growled, and K’nutt ducked past his older brother. “Sorry t’keep you waiting, Sir.”
“It’s all right, Sergeant,” Stagg said, and he and Brush began to leave the biergarten. “Is everything all right?”
“Just a little family discussion, ya might say.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. B’onss got hisself a pass fer a musical number at th’ Grand last night,” Brush said, “an’ while he was there he tried his luck.”
Stagg swiveled one ear. “Gambling?”
“Yessir.”
“Hm. How much does he owe?”
Brush chuckled. “He don’t owe nobody. Made over a thousand, American.”
That caused both of Stagg’s ears to swivel. “Good heavens. That was the subject of the family discussion?”
“Yessir. Ma an’ Pa both had a go at him, wit’ me an’ Kara. Tol’ him about th’ evils o’ gambling.”
“Always good advice.”
Brush nodded. “Most o’ his winnings will go ta th’ family, an’ th’ rest goin’ inta his bank account.” The fox chuckled. “An’ Ma’s gonna get him a new suit. He’s outgrown his old one.”
“Sounds like it’s been well taken care of,” Stagg observed.
“Yeah, pretty much,” Brush conceded. “Hard ta get his attention at first though.”
“How so?”
“He wouldn’t stop goin’ on ‘bout this dame he saw singin’ at th’ Grand after he’d left th’ casino. Somethin’ ‘bout her tailfur.”
Franklin Stagg kept himself from smiling wryly. He hadn’t failed to notice that the oldest son of the Brush Family was also attracted to a femme’s tailfur, particularly if it was very thick and fluffy.
***
The Grand’s casino was closed.
One of the bouncers stood in front of the closed and locked doors of the gambling parlor and laconically repeated, “We’re closed” to anyone who looked as if they wanted to go in. The bull’s size and obvious musculature guaranteed that no attempt was made to brush past him.
Inside, last night’s roulette croupier’s tail was jittering nervously as he spun the wheel for the tenth time that morning. He dropped the ball, and watched the red panda mel seated at the table in the exact place where a Spontoonie fox had been the previous night.
The red panda was wearing a suit, but had set the jacket aside. He adjusted his pince-nez glasses as the ball came to a stop, and noted the number on the pad in front of him with the stub of a pencil. Ni Peng-wum then flipped through a page and a half of calculations before taking the single chip on the table, moving it to another number, and said, “Again.”
The rat gulped, picked up the ball, and set the wheel spinning again while the casino’s manager and the pit boss from the previous night looked on.
The casino manager had been perturbed by the fox’s performance the previous night; enough so, in fact, to send a runner to the office of Ni & Sons when the place opened and requesting that Peng-wum come and see for himself. The red panda had listened, checked the last inspection form from the Spontoon Althing’s Games Commission, and had taken one chip at random from the cashier before telling the croupier to start the wheel.
Finally, after eleven sessions, Peng-wum turned his pad to a blank page and started writing down a series of new calculations. He’d always been good at numbers; a copy of one ledger was on display at FBI Headquarters as an example of creative bookkeeping, and he had refused an invitation from the Max-Planck-Institut in Berlin to lecture on number theory.
He finished, looked at the result, and sat back. “I can’t find anything wrong.”
Everyone in the casino visibly relaxed.
“Five passes should have been enough to make sure,” he said as he stood up and started to put his jacket on, “but I wanted to be certain. I want one – no, two – things done.”
“Yes, Sir?” the casino manager asked.
“One, I want the Games Commission to certify the wheel again.” Despite their reputation, the Ni Family were fairly scrupulous about maintaining their gambling license. “Second, do you think you could recognize that fox again?” he asked the croupier.
“Um, yeah, I think so,” the rat replied. The pit boss nodded.
“Good.” Peng-wum straightened his tie and picked up his pad and pencil. “He’s not allowed in here.” He pointed at the manager, the boss, and the croupier. “Barred permanently. Understood?” All three nodded, and the red panda left the room.
***
The lunch crowd was a little larger than yesterday’s turnout, with a few new faces that lifted Rosie’s spirits. With such obvious tourists showing up nearly a week before the Speed Week festivities, Luchow’s and the other businesses on Spontoon might do well.
Seated at his usual reserved table in the restaurant’s biergarten, Stagg looked up and smiled as Rosie walked over, a plate of salad in one paw and a glass of ice water in the other. She set both down in front of him. “Here you are, Franneleh.”
“Thank you, Rosie.” He took a few bites as she sat down facing him. Swallowing, he asked, “Is everything all right?”
The cheetah smiled. “Yes, everything’s just fine. Why?”
“I think this may add a little more luster to the day,” and Stagg fished a telegram from his pocket and smiled as he gave it to the cheetah femme.
22AUG19390800 MSGSTART FROM ELIAS BROCK C/O F R BUCKHORN AND SONS HONOLULU HAWAII TO INSPECTOR FRANKLIN STAGG C/O SPONTOON ISLANDS CONSTABULARY MEETING ISLAND SPONTOON ISLAND INDEPENDENCIES PLEASE BE ADVISED THAT REGINALD VISCOUNT BUCKHORN WIFE AND FAMILY EN ROUTE SPONTOON STOP FOR VACATION STOP YOU MAY WANT TO ALERT THE RIOT SQUAD IF YOU HAVE ONE STOP REGARDS MSGENDS
Rosie grinned. Naturally, messages of condolence had been sent to Britain when Lord Josslyn had died, and photographs of her and Franklin’s new granddaughter had been sent to Spontoon.
The subterfuge had been Willow’s idea. Minkerton’s operative that she was, sending telegrams via Reggie’s company was an excellent way to avoid Willow’s actual identity being discovered by agents from New Haven.
Her father approved.
Letters, such as the one containing baby pictures, were sent care of the Double Lotus, Spontoon’s famous girls-only bar, using Willow’s and Rosie’s maiden names. “It’ll be a treat to see them again,” Rosie said.
“Yes, it will. Sergeant Brush laughed when I told him.”
“Oh?”
Stagg smiled. “He thought that the Buckhorn’s representative was a new one, because the Sergeant was certain that everyone in the Pacific knows by now that the Constabulary has a riot squad.” They both laughed, and the Inspector said, “Despite the situation, they should get here safely.”
“I hope so.” Rosie’s ears flicked. “I read the same papers you do.”
“Well, Reggie and Willow had nothing to do with President Long’s impeachment.” Stagg gazed down at his salad. “I would say it was hard to imagine that someone so corrupt could become the leader of a country, until I recall New Haven’s history.”
“Franklin.” He looked up and she reached across to cup the side of his face with a paw. “Don’t gnaw on your liver, dear, you know it’s bad for your stomachs.” He smiled and momentarily pressed into her paw before returning to his lunch. Leaving the telegram, Rosie got up to see if Vicky needed any help with the customers.
Spotting a familiar feline form inside the restaurant, she walked in and said, “Hello, Mooch.”
“Ah, my dear Mrs. Stagg,” A. Cadbury Mouchoir said, doffing his hat respectfully. The feline was in his usual attire, a shabby suit topped with a hat that had seen better days. “I was just about to say hello to you and the Inspector when the generous Miss Knox hailed me.”
Rosie glanced at the vixen, who said tartly, “Meaning that I caught him before he could make off with a slice of cake.” She nodded at the glass cake stand, where a chocolate layer cake robed in bright white icing reposed.
“Dishonesty is unbecoming in a member of the fairer sex, Miss Knox,” Mouchoir said, “and quite without any justification, as I was asked to stop by.”
Rosie raised an eyebrow and glanced at Vicky, who shrugged. “Well, I know I didn’t ask for you.”
“So who did?” Vicky asked.
The door to the kitchen banged open and B’onss came out, talking animatedly to K’nutt. “I’m tellin’ ya, K’nutt, she was beeeyooteefool! The most beeeyooteefool dame what I ever seen!” He spied the feline and grinned. “Heya, Mooch! I’m glad ya showed up.”
“You asked him to come here?” Rosie asked.
“Yeah,” B’onss said, nodding. “I wanna ask him how ta meet th’ girl I saw singin’ last night. I wanna meet her.”
“My dear fellow,” Mouchoir said, “if you wish to be, as the expression goes, a ‘Stage Door Johnny,’ you will be going about it all wrong.”
“All wrong?”
“Unless you have my assistance. And for the mere remuneration of a meatloaf sandwich, I shall impart Wisdom. “
B'onss waved this suggestion off. “Nah, no ya don't. I had dat taken out last year.”
“So that's where it went,” Vick said.
<NEXT>
<PREVIOUS>
<FIRST>
Category Story / General Furry Art
Species Red Fox
Size 57 x 120px
File Size 56 kB
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