“I’m sorry, Mudge. I want to start off our life together on a higher plane.”
“Fine. Let’s just ’ave a few snorts of this an’. …”
She grabbed a suitcase in each paw and while she wasn’t strong enough to lift them, she was able to drag them through the sand. An admiring Jon-Tom followed her as she trudged toward the lagoon.
Mudge parallelled her, sometimes arguing with his paws, sometimes pleading on his hands and knees. “Don’t do this, Weegee. If you love me, don’t do this.”
“I do love you, Mudge. And if you want to prove your love for me you’ll help me with this thing.”
“Don’t ask me that. I won’t stop you. By all the powers that live in the ground and make tunnels I should stop you but I won’t. But don’t ask me to ’elp.”
“Piffle. Don’t make such a fuss. Here.” She dropped one of the suitcases. “I know you can do it. I know what you have inside you.”
“Right now ’tis mostly pain.”
“I’ll dump this one and you do that one.”
Jon-Tom and Cautious stood side by side higher up the beach and watched as the otters waded into the shallow lagoon. A horrible keening sound drifted over the water.
“Never heard an otter make noise like that,” Cautious commented.
“Me neither.” Jon-Tom watched small puffs of white rise into the air as sack after sack of pure cocaine was ripped open and scattered upon the tide. When the last had been emptied the suitcases themselves were left to sink peacefully into the pale sand.
Weegee came trotting back to rejoin them. Splashing sounds rose from the water behind her. Jon-Tom peered over her.
“What’s he doing back there?”
She shook her head, sounding disgusted. “He’s out there in the water trying to snort half the lagoon, the stupid fuzzball. But all he inhales is water. Then he sits up spitting and choking for three minutes before he tries again. Let’s go back to the fire. He’ll either give up or drown pretty soon now. I’m not going to baby him. He’s no cub. Just slightly retarded.”
So they sat and waited and nibbled on the roasted seckles until Mudge, looking more pitiful and bedraggled than Jon-Tom had ever seen him, came trudging back to flop wetly down in his spot. He said nothing at all the rest of that evening. The depth of his depression was demonstrated by his refusal to join Weegee in the bushes for some post-dumping discussion.
Morning returned him to something like his usual effervescent self. He was simply too full of life to remain morose for long.
“Easy come, easy go, they say.” He was rearranging the supplies in his backpack. “Time to move on an’ no use to lookin’ back.”
“You got over that fast enough,” said Jon-Tom.
“Wot’s the point in stayin’ down?” He rubbed noses with Weegee. “Besides, when you make a commitment you either stick to it right down the line or you don’t.”
“Pretty impressive coming from someone who’s never made a commitment to anything in his life.”
“There’s a first time for everythin’, mate. I never met anyone like the Weeg ’ere before, either. Life’s chock full o’ endless surprises, wot?”
“What indeed. What do you think about the beach ahead, Cautious?”
The raccoon was staring southward. “Might as well go this way if it’s the way you need to go, man. Maybe this time we find some friendly folk to sell us boat.”
Off they went, Mudge and Jon-Tom shouldering their packs, Weegee skipping along the shore and occasionally bending to inspect the small treasures the sea had washed up, and Cautious leading the way, his alert eyes constantly scanning the tree line for signs of movement.
“I wonder wot old Kamaulk’s up to an’ ’ow ’e’s makin’ out in your world.” Mudge glanced up at his tall friend. “You don’t suppose Corroboc ’ad a third brother lyin’ about somewheres?”
“Let’s hope not. Two of that ilk are all I ever want to encounter.”
“I were thinkin’, there’s a chance, just a chance mind now, that someone as clever an’ resourceful as that parrot might be able to talk ’is way out o’ trouble. Those two ’umans who were goin’ to sell us to some sideshow weren’t exactly wot you’d call any world’s brightest. If Kamaulk could convince ’em ’e were more than a trained pet ’e might be able to get them workin’ for ’im. If they came marchin’ back through that cave passage with a few o’ those lightnin’ throwers like the kind they used to kill Sasheem with they could make a lot o’ trouble.”
Jon-Tom looked uneasy. “I hadn’t thought of that.” The idea of an enraged Kamaulk returning with armed humans from his own world was more than disconcerting. “We’ll just have to hope that nobody believes him.”
But as they marched along the beach he found himself brooding over the image Mudge had called forth. As if they didn’t have enough to worry about with just trying to reach Chejiji.
“I’m telling you, Lenny, you ain’t never seen nothing like this.”
The neatly dressed man leaned back in his leather chair and fiddled with his glasses. “Boys, I’ve booked acts at the Palace for fifteen years. There aren’t any acts I haven’t seen.”
Cruz stepped back from the desk. “And I’m saying you haven’t seen anything like this because there ain’t never been anything like this. This damn bird is unique. Almost weird how it talks.”
“Yeah,” chipped in Manco. “I mean, you don’t have to prompt heem to talk or nothing. You just loosen hees beek an’ hee starts talkeeng nonstop. Hee’s smarter than a cheempanzee.”
“And big.” Cruz held his palm a meter off the floor to show just how big. “I’ve never seen a parrot this big.”
“A macaw.” The booking agent steepled his fingers. “Macaws get pretty big.”
“Not like this. And broad in proportion. Almost heavyset.”
“Well.” The agent glanced pointedly at the clock on the far wall. In fifteen minutes he was due to watch a quartet of former showgirls who’d developed a specialty juggling act which included watermelons, chain saws, flaming torches and, most important for Vegas, strategic articles of their clothing. Sort of a nudey version of the Flying Karamazov Brothers. He was looking forward to interviewing them a lot more than he was these two street clowns, the good dope they’d slipped him in the past notwithstanding.
But they’d been convincing enough to get past his secretary and there was in their spiel an almost childlike certitude that gave him pause. It was one thing to waste your time on every fruitcake that wandered in off the street convinced he owned a million-dollar act, quite another to dismiss them out of hand only to see them turn up headlining the lounge over at the MGM Grand or Circus Circus the following night. Fifteen years’ time with the company or no, that was a good way to find yourself out on the street shilling for the cheap joints downtown. He studied the two expectant visitors. Had they actually managed to latch onto something special? Or had they stolen it from another performer? There was such a thing as a one-in-a-lifetime novelty act.
Wild thought, of course. Talking parrots were a dime a dozen. Cockatoos were always in demand because of that old TV show that was still big in syndication, that, what was it—Berreta, or something. No, that was a gun. And every animal act he’d ever seen required the presence of a trainer to cue the critter. There was no such thing as a spontaneous animal performer. All required direction. Yet these two insisted theirs could perform alone. Dare he risk passing on the five minutes needed to check it out?
