And On That Note
A Spontoon Island story
© 2023 by Walter Reimer
(Various characters are copyright their respective owners.)
Thumbnail art by  rockbaker

Fifteen.



“Hey, Michelle?” The spotted skunk turned as the stage manager walked up to her. The cougar leaned against the wall to make way for the next act and said, “Good set tonight.”

“Thanks.”

“See any sign of the guy?”

Michelle’s tail flicked. “No. And I was looking for him, too.”

“Uh huh. Think our fish slipped off the hook?”

The spotted skunk shrugged. “Don’t know. He might be playing a long game.” The singer said, “I’ve given a note to the head waiter, to give the guy if he shows up again.”

The cougar nodded approvingly. “Good.”


***


Monday, August 28, 1939:

The Irish East Indies air racing team had taken Sunday off, to attend Mass at St. Anthony’s and rest. K’nutt joined them the next morning to watch as Timmeen put the Fingal’s Folly through the Schneider Cup course to gauge the seaplane’s performance before the time trials scheduled for Wednesday and Thursday. Seamus and Paddy were scanning the sky with binoculars, while the Spontoonie tod-fox stood with one paw shading his eyes as he chewed another piece of Cocoanut Bubble Cud.

The gum was really tasty, and a piece lasted a long time.

He squinted, and tugged at Paddy’s sleeve. “Th-Th-Th-“ he stammered, pointing.

The beagle swung his binoculars. “Good lad, K’nutt,” Paddy said. “Seamus?”

The wolfhound glanced down at his stopwatch and growled. He took his flat cap off and waved it frantically as the plane soared overhead. From the sound as it passed by, the engine was doing fairly well. “Still a little slow, achudth,” he grumbled as the plane waggled its wings and began to go around again.

“Wh-Wh-Why w-w-wave your h-h-hat?” the young fox asked.

Seamus said, “There’s na wireless in t’Folly, lad. We’ve got t’let Timmeen know if he’s runnin’ slow round th’ coorse.”

“Oh.” K’nutt nodded, chewing slowly. That made sense to him. After all, it was a race, and planes were supposed to go as fast as they could.

Still . . .

“Wh-Wh-Why n-n-not a f-f-f-flag?”

The two canines immediately stopped searching the skies and looked at him. “What’s that, K’nutt?” Paddy asked.

Put on the spot, the tod-fox felt his tail bottle slightly. This was certainly harder than when he was teaching socialist dialectic to the albino squirrels. His great-aunt was a Wise One, and she hadn’t objected, so it was okay. “Um, w-w-well,” he said slowly, “T-T-Timmeen m-might n-not s-s-s-see your h-h-hat. Wh-Wh-Why n-not use a r-r-red flag f-for if h-he’s g-going too slow, y-yellow for a l-l-l-little slow, and g-g-g-green f-f-for f-f-fast enough.”

Paddy and Seamus looked at each other. “Sure’n he’s right, Seamus,” the beagle said.

“Aye, th’ lad’s a jeenyus, so he is,” the wolfhound said proudly. “We’ll work things out wit’ Timmeen when he sets his feet on land.” He placed a massive paw on K’nutt’s shoulder. “Ye’re a smart fox, so y’are.”

No one had ever called him ‘smart’ before, and K’nutt smiled.

After another lap, the oddly-painted pusher plane touched down in the lagoon, trailing a wisp of smoke, and taxied to its hangar. Timmeen had the canopy open, the mixed-breed canine looking exhausted, and after the plane had its wheels affixed and was hauled out of the water, the pilot clambered out of the cockpit and immediately knelt and kissed the concrete floor.

“Oi, Timmeen!” Paddy said as the canine got to his feet. “K’nutt’s had a great idea, an’ – “ His voice trailed off as the pilot got to his feet and walked past Paddy and Seamus, going into the hangar’s office before dropping to his knees before the statue of the Virgin Mary that had been placed there.

K’nutt watched him start praying, and flinched a little as Paddy clapped a paw on his shoulder. “He does that,” the beagle said, “an’ sure’n it’s a good sign, so it is. Would ye be afther wantin’ some luncheon, m’friend?”

“L-L-Lunch?” K’nutt felt his ears go back at that. With Speed Week starting, Rosie had allowed him and B’onss to work only a half day. B’onss worked in the mornings so he could have the time to pursue the singer he was smitten with, while K’nutt worked in the afternoons so he could help the racing team that had adopted him as their chief mechanic. “I-I-I g-g-gotta g-g-g-go.”

“All right, lad,” Paddy said, and the tod waved as he left the hangar.

While sitting in the water taxi on his way to Meeting Island, K’nutt smiled, very pleased with himself that he was being helpful.


***


“I . . . I suppose that we should send condolences to Diana,” Reggie said, lowering his glass after taking a swallow of the gin and tonic. “It’s the right thing to do.”

Willow nodded. Mary had taken the Stagg twins back to the apartment over Luchow’s after sharing the toast to the fallen Prime Minister. “We could try to call her, but it’d take quite a bit longer than a telegram.”

“The singing wire it is, then,” her husband said. “Lodge, could you nip down to the front desk – “

“A pad of North Pacific Telegraph blanks, Sir,” the beaver said, offering the short stack of forms to his employer. The whitetail buck’s ears swiveled and his tail flag as he took the pad and boggled at them, before boggling at Lodge.

“Good Lord, Lodge!” Reggie finally said. “Where did you get these?”

“Preparations, Sir.”

“’Preparations?’”

“Yes, Sir. Preparations for emergencies, based upon long experience.”

Reggie eyed Lodge. “Would I be wrong in guessing that the long experience included being able to inform my parents if I required extra funds for fines, bail, and hospital bills?”

Lodge remained imperturbable. “You would not be wrong, Sir.”

“Oh. Um. I swear, Lodge, there are times I think you can reach into other dimensions to fetch things. Are you sure you don’t have relatives living on Cranium Island?”

Lodge raised a paw and coughed a soft laugh into the back of the paw before replying, “Very droll, Sir. I can assure you, Sir, that none of my relatives are gifted enough or mad enough to live there.”

There was a pause as Reggie thought this over. “That would imply that some of your relatives are gifted and or mad,” the buck said, “but not enough to allow them to emigrate.”

“That would be betraying a confidence, Sir,” Lodge assured him.

Willow came forward and took the pad of telegram blanks from Reggie’s paws. “I think I should write to Diana, Reggie. In both our names?”

“Absolutely, Willow. You’re the doe with the Right Touch for Lady Mosley, the poor girl.” He sighed. “Lord of the realm that I am, I suppose I'd better be the one writing to David and Wallis. Ugh. I hope this doesn't mean His Majesty is going to try to inveigle me into Government.”

“I don’t think he’ll try, Reggie,” Willow said. “As much as David likes you, I doubt he’d try to get the Cabinet to draft you.”

“Shooting myself in the hoof won’t work,” Reggie muttered. “Still, you and Wallis see quite eye to eye – a mare and a doe in simpatico, if I can wax poetic at such a time.”

Willow chuckled as she passed him a telegram blank and a pencil, while she sat down at the dining table.


***


So, she was playing hard to get, huh? B’onss had thought to himself as he deliberately stayed away from the Grand as Rosie advised.

Well, so could he, and he was Spontoonie, not a Euro.

By lunchtime the next day, the young tod-fox had thought of a plan. It would be expensive, likely taking a bite from the remaining money in his savings account, but it would be worth it.

Of course, affording it was half the battle. Finding someone willing to sell to him took a little longer, but he knew a friend of a cousin who could help him. Being a member of the Brush Family, B’onss was related in some degree to every native fox on the atoll.

Arrangements would have to be made, but B’onss felt that it was a good plan, and he couldn’t wait to implement it. Provided, naturally, his idiot twin brother showed up.

Ah.

“’Bout time ya got here,” B’onss growled at K’nutt. “How was the meetin’ of the mindless?”

“Aw, th-th-they ain’t l-l-like th-th-that,” K’nutt stammered.

“Well, Rosie’s had me washin’ up,” B’onss said, “so ya can take over for me. I gotta go.”

“G-G-Got a d-d-date t-t-tonight?”

“Nunya.”

“Wh-Wh-Wh-“

“Nunya beeswax, ya boob,” and B’onss left the restaurant. K’nutt watched him go, shrugged, and went back to the pot room.

About an hour later B’onss concluded his deal and the fishmonger placed a paw-sized bivalve in his eager paws. The young tod-fox admired it for a moment before realizing that he had to open it in order to get to the meat that he wanted to share with the spotted skunk. He had to work fast, though, because he had to clean up and get dressed to go to the Grand.

He made his way back to Luchow’s, waited until Nick left the kitchen to attend to something, and darted inside.

The grinder was going, and a few late-afternoon diners’ orders were cooking on the griddle. B’onss ferreted around in the utensils before he found what he was looking for, a short-bladed shucking knife.

He’d never used one before, but how hard could it be?

He had to work quickly, too, so he set the point of the knife’s blade to what he guessed was the weakest point on the shell, and pushed.

Finding the going tougher than expected, he tried harder.

And nearly stabbed himself in the paw as the blade went clean through the hinge of the shell, levering the meat out of its home and sending it flying straight into the grinder.

B’onss was on his feet in an instant, chucking the shells into the trash, hurriedly wiping the shucking knife on his trousers and dumping it back into the utensil drawer before going to the grinder.

The machine was working on a lot of vegetables, and as B’onss dithered about whether to risk sticking his paw into it, a lepine shadow loomed over him. “What are you doing?” Nick asked.

“N-Nothin,’” B’onss said defensively.

The Russian rabbit scowled at him. “You keep your paws out of this,” he said, one ear dipping toward the grinder. “It is not for you. You are supposed to be on a date,” he said. “If you stay here, Nikolai Ivanovich find work for you, nu? Now, scat!” He aimed a kick at B’onss, who ran out of the kitchen.

The grinder continued its work unremarked, preparing a vegetable mousse as filling for a terrine.

A short distance down the alley, B’onss stopped, shook a fist in the general direction of N. I. Lopanearov, and headed for the water taxis.

His plan had failed, but he could still rely on his native charm and Mooch’s tutelage to achieve his aims.





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