A bit later, Villy and I met up in Barnie’s room.  The Brahma bull and the canine looked very happy about something. “What’s going on?”
        Villy grinned.  “Cardamom’s skills are being appreciated,” he said in that low, throaty purr of his.  He offered a set of earphones.  “Have a listen.”
        I put one earphone to my ear as Barnie switched on the recorder – and promptly held it two inches further away.
        Papa was reading Mike the Riot Act.
        “What the hell’re you thinking, Mike!  Gallivanting around the place, propositioning the help!  You’re married, for Chrissakes!”
        “Don’t remind me.”
        “Oh I WILL remind you, you lopeared – “ and here Papa launched into a long harangue in Greek, with Mike snarling back in the same language.  “You bring disgrace on my sister again, and I’ll rip your ears off!”
        “Go ahead – it’s better than listening to her yowling all night.”
        “What!?”
        “Griping about how I’m never home – here I am, looking after the hotel and the project, while you’re mooning after that sow like a lovesick kitten!”
        “All I’m after is her money,” Papa hissed.  “You, on the other paw, seem to want some doe in your diet.”
        “Spying on me?”
        “MY hotel, remember?  You can’t sneeze here without me knowing about it.  Now get your sorry tail outta my sight!  Head on down to the shack and look after things there!”  A pause.  “GET OUT!”
        I lowered the earphone as Barnie shut off the recorder.  “Well, we got a rift opened between the two,” I said.
        “You might say that,” Villy said with a chuckle.
        I grinned.  “So, what have you two been working on?”
        “Well,” Barnie replied, “Villy and I are planning on shutting down their system.  It’s pretty obvious from the recorder that Papa’s after Teasdale’s money, probably to bankroll a larger version of what he’s already built,” and he described where the king-size pneumatique ended up.
        It was an intriguing idea.  I’d read that a bootlegger back in Prohibition had bought a Great War-era German U-Boat and used it shoot hollow ‘torpedoes’ full of illegal hooch at the beach.  This was just a refinement of the idea. 
        Imagine one of these tubes stretching all the way to Cuba.  A steady flow of drugs coming in, and the Coast Guard never the wiser. 
        “So how do we shut it down?” I asked.
        “Explosives,” Villy replied, cracking his knuckles.  “Just a small charge to wreck the compressor.  The overpressure from the explosion will hopefully knock out this end.  Might damage the hotel laundry, though.”
        “Can’t be helped,” I said.  “Might not even be noticed, judging from the sheets in my room.  When can you be ready to go?”
        “A couple more days,” Barnie said.  “We’ll keep recording their conversations in order to get more evidence.”
        “And I’ll keep an eye on the shack,” Villy said.  “We want to track their movements so we know when’s the best time to gum up the works.”
        “Great.”  I stretched.  “Great work, both of you.  Now it’s time for me to get into my finery.”
        “He going to saw you in half tonight?” Villy asked innocently, and laughed when I stuck my tongue out at him.


        I heard Julius and Benelli talking about the day’s events as I had dinner.  “If you were a thief, what would you do?” the duck asked the hound.
        “Eh, atsa simple.  I’da get another t’ief, an’ put him onna his back.”
        “Why?”
        “I wanna turn over a new t’ief.”
        “That’s a swell idea.  You know, Benelli, you may be in the wrong line of work.  Why don't you become a laudanum salesman?”
        “Eeeh, dat's an idea.  I sleep on it.”
        “With your ambition and your brains, you might get somewhere.  And when you get there, please don't bother to write.”
        I finished my dinner while remaining as quiet as possible.  The deep-fried mushrooms with a dipping sauce were very tasty.
        I’ll never get over the idea of putting ice in tea, though.
        The show that night was a lot of fun.  Rollin had set up a variation to the sword and box trick; I vanished, but he then reclosed the box, made several passes over it and reopened it to reveal me, dressed as a stereotypical burglar (complete with mask) and trying unsuccessfully to conceal a string of pearls.
        I was then chased around, then off, the stage by a bevy of chorus girls dressed as policemen, accompanied by a raucous tune played by the band’s saxophonist.
        The audience applauded and laughed, and eventually Mrs. Teasdale laughed along with the rest.  She was still a bit perturbed by the apparent theft, which was still being blamed on Randolph.  He hadn’t been spotted yet.
        “That was a great show tonight, Janet,” Mike said later as he treated me to a late dinner at a restaurant across the street from the hotel.
        “I didn’t see you there.”
        “I was standing way at the back.  Andreas is a bit steamed at me.”
        I cocked my head curiously.  “Why?”  I sat back, my mouth forming an O.  “Oh, my, it’s because of me, isn’t it?”
        He smiled and took my paw.  “Actually, I’m glad.  It brought a few things out into the open.  Certain things might happen as a result.”
        “Nothing bad, I hope.”
        Another smile, but I could sense teeth behind it.
        After dinner we ended up back up in the suite, and Mike, considerably farther advanced in liquor than I was, started to get a bit grabby.  I played the hard-to-get coy act, yielding a bit here and there to keep his attention as I gingerly drew out from him that the ‘things’ he had mentioned included a divorce.
        My dress came off at some point, leaving me in my scanties.  Mike was quite artful, come to think of it; I barely noticed he’d unzipped me until I felt it around my hooves.
        Suddenly my heart stopped and my stomachs tied up in knots as we heard the door open.  “Mike?  You there?” came Andreas’ gravelly voice.
        There was only one way out, and Papa was filling it.
        We both arrived at the same conclusion.
        “The balcony.”
        Dress in paw, I stepped out onto the balcony and Mike closed the door (giving me a quick good-night peck) and I heard voices.  Papa still sounded angry, but he and Mike were talking and not trying to throttle each other.
        I was on the second floor, so I figured I could swing over the railing and ease myself down until I could let go and land on my hooves.  I’ve always been sure-hooved.
        Luckily the balcony didn’t face the main road and was in shadow.  No problem, right?
        Wrong.
        I was hanging there, getting ready to drop to the sidewalk, when I heard people approaching.
        Oh, my Lord.
        No.  Please.
        “Ey, atsa whaddaya call onea them peenyatters!"
        “HONK HONK!"  Randolph gleefully produced that stupid long-barreled horn and started poking my derriere with it.


        Benelli stopped him.  "Ey, atsa no good.  Ya gotta give it a good whack, ta getta the candy out!"
        “Yes, like *this*!"  I lashed out with one of my hooves, smacking Benelli upside the quixotic canine’s head.
        He shook it off easily, darn it.  "Atsa no good!  I gotta nothing in dere."
        To make matters worse, Senator Padgett half-staggered down the sidewalk.  Despite his drunken half-stupor, he obviously spotted me and said, “Good heavens, full moon already?  We had one just last week."  He wobbled off, with Benelli and Randolph in tow.
        The canine was telling the panther what was going on, and I heard Padgett say, “I hope he at least got to second base.”
        “Ey, froma the looka her I t’ink he got inna pickle.”
        “*hic* Sounds painful.”
        I dropped to my hooves, put my dress on and ran back to my room, flagging and almost in tears.



        The next morning Cardamom Cartwright slipped out of her room and headed for the dining room for breakfast.  She was missing any trace of the makeup that had allowed her to masquerade as Mrs. Teasdale. 
        Sergeant Crockett of the Miami Police nodded pleasantly to her as she walked past him.  Captain Easy had left him at the hotel with orders to keep an eye out for Randolph.  The little deer was wanted for questioning.  She smiled at the tall coyote and went to breakfast.
        When she went to the lobby for a copy of the morning paper Julius, still ensconced behind his front desk, called out, “Good morning, Miss Cartwright.”
        “Good morning.”
        “Your first name is Cardamom, isn’t it?”
        “Er, yes.”
        The duck practically vaulted over the desk, sliding across the well-polished floor to end up on his knees at her trotters.  “Well, you don't cardamom, you card a wool.  Speaking of which, wool you be mine?  I promise I won't fleece you, my little side of mutton.”  He leered at her, then said, “And if I do, it'll be double or mutton.  Say, looking at you makes me wish I had a double, right now.”
        A bit bewildered by his rapid-fire patter, Cardamom simply looked flustered.  Julius took advantage of it by seizing her paw and looking up at her adoringly.
        “Say, are you an heiress?”
        “Why, er, no.”
        “Are . . . are you comfortably well off?”
        “No.”
        His demeanor changed and he got to his feet.  “Say, can you spot me a five until this Friday?”
        She shook her head, and Julius resumed his coy flirting expression.  “Didn't we meet out west a few years ago?  You know, you remind me, my dear, of the Grand Tetons.”
        Cardamom blushed despite herself.  “Majestic, you mean?” 
        “No, white on top, and broad and brown on the bottom.  No, on the other wing, you remind me of a Swiss mountain.  I look at you and say: God Alp Us.”
        Cardamom snorted at him and yanked her paw from his.  She put her snout in the air, got a newspaper, and left the lobby.


        I wandered into the bar, where several members of the Daughters of the Magnolia had gathered for afternoon aperitifs and to trade stories of how their families had fared during the War Between the States.  I ordered an iced tea and sat back, looking at the group for the first time.
        There were about fifty or sixty of them, a mix of species but mostly felines.  I overheard two of them mention that Mrs. Teasdale had a whole network of relatives throughout the South, scattered hither and yon as the Union armies had moved through.
        Mrs. Teasdale leaned back in her chair and clutched at her treasured pearls.  “I still recall my dear old Grandfather.  Virgil Caine was his name, and he served on the Danville train - until Stoneman's cavalry came and tore up the tracks again.”
        An elderly matron, who must have been a child when things went bad, chimed in, “In the winter of '65, we were hungry, just barely alive.”  She sighed and fanned herself.  “On May the tenth, Richmond had fell.  It's a time I remember, oh so well.”
        “It was the night they drove old Dixie down,” one feline said.  “The bells were ringing, and the people were singing.”
        “My Ma was saying,” another woman, this one a deer on the high side of fifty, said, “that when she was in Tennessee, she called to her husband, ‘Virgil, quick, come see, there go the Robert E. Lee."  The other women nodded approvingly, several murmuring prayers for the repose of the great general’s soul.
        The deer’s tone grew sepulchral.  “My brother – my brother above me, you understand - he took a rebel stand.”  Tears stood in her eyes.  “He was just eighteen, proud and brave, but a Yankee laid him in his grave.”
        I got the feeling that these matrons had traded chestnuts like this for many years.  Some of the reminiscences sounded very rehearsed.
        “Mother?”  At the sound of the male voice we all turned to see a forty-something peccary dressed in an impeccably white tropical suit.
        Wearing white before Memorial Day?  Is this guy nuts?
        “Gregory!” Mrs. Teasdale cried out, and I realized I had the honor of seeing the man who had hired Minkerton’s to find out what was going on.  She hugged him as he kissed her cheek dutifully and she asked, “What on Earth are you doing here?”
        “I took some time off from work, and caught the first plane down here,” he replied, and I had to stifle a giggle.
        I guess pigs really do fly, after all.
        I finished my iced tea and stepped out of the bar in time to see Julius haranguing another employee.  “If we had any more red ink, we'd be advertising in Moscow.”  He caught sight of me and immediately said, “Well, if it isn’t the Disappearing Doe.  Tell me, how much will it take for you to reappear in my room one night?”
        I gave a whistling snort.  “More than you make in a year.”
        He seemed unimpressed.  “You’d be surprised what I can make in a year,” he said.  “Make a pile, make book, make – “  He broke off as Mrs. Teasdale and the other Daughters entered.  “Mrs. Teasdale!”
        “Yes, Mr. Quackenfall?”
        “Do you like mud?  It’s good for your complexion.”  Before she could react he added, “It hides it.”
        “See here, sir!” Gregory bristled.  “You’re talking to my mother!”
        “That so?  I can see the nut didn’t fall far from the tree.  Where’s your father at?  Divorced?  You know, one out of five marriages end in divorce.  And they’re the lucky ones.”
        “He passed away,” Gregory said.
        “I hope he passed Go and collected two hundred dollars.  Your mother seeing anyone else, now that she’s a merry widow?”
        “Sir!” Gregory looked scandalized.  “I’ll have you know that my mother has remained faithful to my father’s memory!  She hasn’t so much as looked at another man!”
        “Virtue triumphant, eh?”  Julius waggled his eyebrows at Mrs. Teasdale.  “You're in the clear.”
        The Teasdales went off to their rooms and the Daughters scattered as a couple walked in.  They were rather short, looking vaguely simian, and I recognized the species from a mission I had taken part in that involved the Mixtecan Embassy in Washington.  “Excuse me,” the man asked in accented English, “does this hotel have a garage?”
        “Why do you want to know?” the duck asked.
        The man looked at his mate before replying, “I have a flat tire.  Do you have a mechanic?”
        Julius tapped some ashes from his cigar.  “No, we have a Padgett,” and he nodded in the direction of the Senator, who was dozing over his paper, “and not only can he Padgett, but he can fill it full of hot air.”
        Padgett spluttered awake.  “Now, see here, sir – “
        “You know, you're truly a representative of your peers.  Remind me to give your state a wide berth.  With all they eat, they need it.”
        “But you're IN Florida, sir!”
        “Well, you'll pardon me, but given the hot weather and the company, I thought I was somewhere else.”
        The Senator continued to sputter.
        “So, where are you from, Senator?”
        Padgett stopped sputtering.  “I am from Dinner Key,” he said in tones of deeply offended dignity.
        “Really?  I would have thought Liquor Cabinet Key.  To tell the truth, though, with that gut of yours, you shouldn't be the one allowed near the key.”
        Padgett was about to say something, but he caught sight of me.
        Randolph, pursued by Sergeant Crockett, came careening around the corner and caught sight of me.
        There ensued a merry chase, with a policefur chasing a randy Randolph who was chasing a randy Senator Padgett, who in turn was pursuing a not-at-all-randy Willow.
        Julius yelled after us, “Wait till after dark, and you might catch her act as the Moon Over Miami again!”
        I made it safely to my room and slammed the door shut in their muzzles, eliciting noises that sounded quite a bit like a train wreck.


        “Harm could come to a growing bird from that.”
        Villy Armstrong paused as he left the hotel to watch what was happening.  The Miami Streetcar Line ran past the front of the establishment, and Jay, the small blue avian who was part of the staff, was talking with a nattily-dressed weasel.
        The weasel smirked at Jay and played a discordant note on a wooden train whistle.
        “I cannot blow another note, my capitaine. That is not an A train, it is not.”
        “Hah!” the weasel snorted derisively.  “Of course it is a train!”
        “Eee-hee. You have made the grammatical erure, you have. That is not A train, that is an train.”  Jay looked quite pleased with his display of logic, as he turned to passers-by and declaimed, “I think that I catches silly Philadelphia type in grammatical error, thanks to Brains, the wonder head filler.”
        The weasel seemed unimpressed and mugged a bit for the slowly gathering audience.  “Are you sure, mon petit idiot? Perhaps you should stand in front to see.”
        “Hmm. Stand in front of what, my capitaine?”
        “An train.”
        “Hmmmm . . . all right.  I shall step between long metal thingies.”  The bird took up a position between the rails just as the streetcar came around the corner.
        The motorman blew a horn and applied the brakes, slowing almost to a stop but still managing to collide with Jay, who rebounded off the front of the trolley and sprawled untidily in the street.
        “YOU ROTTEN SWINE!” Jay screamed.  “I have been deaded by the dreaded Market-Frankford Line.”  He clutched at his knees, sobbing, “Now I shall never get to heaven.”
        The weasel turned and gestured triumphantly to the crowd.  “Because, folks, the Frankford El goes straight to . . . Frankford!  Ha-ha!  Ha-ha!  Ulmp,” he bit off his laughter by making it sound as if he were either swallowing or choking back bile.
        A few members of the crowd applauded politely while others boarded the trolley.  Villy shook his head and kept walking.
        He was headed south, to keep an eye on a certain shack on the northern end of Biscayne Bay.


        To most people, he looked like a fisherman, complete to poles sticking out of the bed of his battered and ancient Model T pickup truck.  He pulled the truck to a stop at a small general store south of the city and got out as one man slouched in a chair by the door idly raised his hat and looked at him.  “Hot d…day,” the nondescript feline remarked.
        “Not so bad,” Villy said as he walked into the store.  He was polite to the young woman behind the counter and paid what was asked of him for things he needed.  He didn’t try to dicker for supplies, like so many Northerners tried to do.
        He stepped out as a car marked with a five-pointed star and the legend SHERIFF pulled to a stop by the side of the store.  The fur behind the wheel stepped out and spat, then headed for the porch and took a seat. 
        Villy had a small bag containing bottles of soda, and he offered one each to the feline idler and the deputy.  The deputy, a stocky black bear with a slightly vapid expression, took the offered bottle and muttered, “We got lumps of it ‘round back.”
        “So,” Villy said, “how’s the fishing around here?”
        “Eh?” the deputy said, cupping one paw to his ear.
        “How’s the fishing?” the bull asked, a bit louder.
        “Ya’ll have ta sp...sp…speak up.  He’s d…de…deaf as a p…p…post.”
        “HOW’S.  THE.  FISHING?” Villy yelled.
        The deputy looked a bit confused, then gave a gap-toothed grin (showing tobacco-stained teeth) and wagged a finger at the bull.
        “I knows where ta get it, if’n ya’ll want it,” the ursine said cryptically.
        “D…D…Don’t m…mind him,” the feline stuttered.  “He’s d…d…d…deaf and m…m…m…m…”  He stamped a foot hard on the porch.  “Mad!”
        Villy leaned over to him.  “Then how’d he make deputy?”
        “D…D…Dayum Sh…Sheriff’s n…n…n…n…nephew!” 
        Villy looked from one to the other.
        “Uh huh.”
        He got into his truck and drove off.


        Later, Villy scraped a match against the rusting fender of his truck and lit a cigarette, then flicked his baited hook back into the Atlantic surf, his tail swishing at a few stray mosquitoes.  He sort of liked this part of the job – just watching, doing something relaxing as cover.
        He might even catch something.
        People had been coming and going from the shack a few hundred yards down the beach from where he was waiting for a bite.  As night started to fall, Villy opened a beer and watched as the single light in the shack went out.  Shortly thereafter a battered Model A pulled away from the shack and headed south.
        Villy reeled in his line carefully and stowed the tackle in the back of his truck.  After making sure that certain items were secured to his belt he set off toward the shack, keeping to the scrub line just off the beach.  There was no telling if there might be a sentry on duty.
        He reached the small structure and pressed an ear to the door.  There was a soft sound of machinery, most likely the air compressor, but no sound of anyfur moving about.  He tried the door, then pulled a pair of lock-picks out and set to work.
        The door swung open and the bull flicked on a flashlight and looked around. 
        Table and a couple chairs.
        A stack of squat one-gallon cans.
        A huge air compressor connected to a wide-diameter tube that plunged into the floor.
        Villy smiled and flicked off the flashlight, then eased back out of the small building and retraced his steps to his truck.
        Working by practiced feel in the dark, he fitted extensions to his fishing pole and hooked the two prongs over a nearby telephone line, then took the trailing wires and screwed them into an Ericsson phone.  He tucked the pawset into the hollow of his neck and cranked the apparatus.
        “Hello?  Hello, operator . . . yes, thank you, I’d like to be connected to the Hotel de Cocoanut in Miami, number ORange 4-4578.  I’ll wait, thank you . . . yes, hello?  Room one-eleven, please . . . Willow?  Villy.  It’s here . . . no, I haven’t caught anything yet, but I’m lying low right now . . . tomorrow night?  What time?  Hmm, okay.” 
        The bull consulted the radium dial of his wristwatch.  “Okay, Willow.  Yeah, I’ve got the same time you do . . . yes . . . right.” 
        He hung up and stowed the Ericsson, then packed things away in his truck and headed back to the hotel.    
       

        The next day passed relatively uneventfully.
        I say “relatively” in much the same way I would describe a Mixtecan revolution as “relatively” bloodless.
        Villy had reported that Papa’s boys didn’t leave a guard on the shack, which suited our purposes just fine. 
        For the stupidity of our enemies, the Good Lord make us truly thankful.
        The idea he and Barnie had cooked up involved setting a timed explosive – oh all right, a bomb – in the works at the shack end of the pneumatique.  The pressure wave, Barnie assured me, would wreck the hotel end and gum up the entire works.  Enough would be left behind for J. Edgar and the Rover Boys.
        The hotel saw another act arrive, a new band led by a Cuban crocodile named Micky Babalu and his completely airheaded vixen singer/girlfriend.  They had a good Latin beat for most of their tunes, and the vixen, Lucille Moll, was not a bad singer when she wasn’t clowning around.
        I figured she and the band’s singer/comic would be good foils for Julius and the other crazies around here.  Which leads me to the one and only (thank the Lord) Jerry Oldman.  Oldman was an otter from one of the lesser-known notches on the Borscht Belt.  He would play trombone (not well) and tell jokes for the crowd as the band rested between sets.
        Rollin and I watched him during rehearsal. 
        Rollin shook his head.  “I caught some of his act one night.”
        “Oh?”
        “Yeah.  He could clear a hall in no time flat.”
        “Ugh.”
        “Well, don’t worry about him.  Let’s go over tonight’s act – “  He was interrupted by a clatter of instruments.
        Lucille had tripped over something and landed in part of the brass section, raising a fearful racket.  She sat up amid the litter of sheet music and chairs, muzzle agape.
        “AHHHHH, MICKY!!!”
        As her boyfriend came to her rescue, Rollin and I decided to go up to his room to rehearse. 
        It would definitely be quieter.
        The act tonight was going to involve me being sawn in half, a standard crowd-pleaser.  Rollin wanted to make certain that everything was just right, as he had a few tricks up his sleeve.
        Of course he would – he was a magician, after all.
        I was putting on my makeup when there was a knock on my door.  “This had better be good,” I grumbled as I went to open it.
        “Hi, Willow,” Cardamom said.  “Can I talk to you?”
        “Sure.  Come on in.”
        She looked a bit worried.  “I’m running low on makeup for the Mrs. Teasdale look.  Can I borrow some of yours?”
        I grinned.  I don’t use as much as she does, even under normal conditions.  “Sure.  Help yourself.”
        We set to looking at each other’s makeup to ensure that we looked our best when the lights flickered a bit.  “That’ll be Barnie,” Cardamom said.  “Testing the microphones, I think.”
        The lights flickered again.
        “That’ll be number two.”
        The next time lights flickered there was a zapping sound and the lights went out for about five seconds.  We could hear a pained yelp from down the hallway.
        “I guess that one was still hot,” Cardamom chuckled as the lights came back on.
        “Our electrician,” I said.  Shortly thereafter, there was a knock on the door.
        I opened it to see Barnie, looking disheveled and a bit frazzled.  “Barnie?”
        “I just wanted to say good luck.  We're all counting on you."  He wobbled off, in the direction of the bar.
        We waited until the door was closed before laughing.


        Rollin Pawe stood in the wings and watched as Micky Babalu and the Havana High Tones finished their opening song.  They certainly sounded good, and the girl had a good voice.  Micky and the band had opened with ‘The Continental,’ followed by the leader and his girlfriend singing ‘Mi Buenos Aires Querida’ as a duet, the way they sang giving away the fact that they were very much in love.
        The trombonist and comedian Jerry Oldman stood up and played a quick jazz tune on his instrument, then held it in his paw, gesturing with it to punctuate his jokes.  “I’m very glad to be here in Miami, home of sea, sun and sand.  I had hoped to find a pool down here, but I haven’t seen it yet.”
        “Just look for the women,” Julius called out from the wings.
        “Of course, I could just find a sinkhole to swim in.”
        “This hotel’s a sinkhole.”
        Several members of the band were exchanging grins as Jerry looked askance at Julius.  “I won’t say that the food’s cheap at this place, but I had the steak last night and it whinnied as it went down.”
        One equine matron scowled at the joke.
        “You know, there’s a sanitarium up in Georgia for jokes like that,” the duck told the otter as the avian edged further and further out from the wings.
        “That so?  Just one more of the remarkable things about the South.  You know, I heard that the Governor of South Carolina had to move up to North Carolina.”
        “Why?  He get traded for a congressman to be named later?”
        “No, I heard that he wanted to sleep in Charlotte.”  This sally was greeted with only scattered laughter and very little applause.
        “Well, the joke was on him,” Julius said.  “She was a Bolshevik sympathizer.”
        “You could say she was a Charlotte Russophile.”
        A stocky pigeon in the crowd, accompanied by a rail-thin sandpiper, called out in the ensuing lull, “Youse jokes is disgusting!  Youse always got sex on your mind?”
        The otter grinned.  “Well, I generally prefer a bed.  It's a lot less messy.”  This was greeted with some laughter and Jerry asked, “What’s your name, sir?”
        “Earl.”  The man’s Brooklyn accent was pronounced.
        “Oil?” Jerry echoed.  “They've discovered oil in Miami!”
        “Where?” the pigeon asked. 
        “In the hotel barbershop.”
        “Dat's a lie, I wuz in th' bar.” 
        The laughter drew Julius out onto the stage.  He lit and puffed at another cigar.  “H'm.  Barber shop. Hare oil?”
        “Yes, from Texas jackrabbits,” Jerry shot back.  “Earl, what’s your last name?”
        The pigeon cocked an eyebrow.  “Earl Sinclair.”
        Julius remarked, “Of the Brooklyn Sinclairs.  Which shows how choosy Brooklyn is.”
        “He ain't no dino,” Benelli called out from a corner of the dining room.  “For one t'ing, he'sa sober.”
        “He's a Humble fellow.”
        “That's a promising Signal.”
        “All I can say is that whoever covers Earl in oil will be SORI.”
        “But you know, I regard the situation with disdain, and say ‘Essowhat?’"  Jerry played a short musical sting for himself on his trombone.
        “So give him to Alexander Calder, who can make a Mobil out of him.”
        “But it requires knowledge to figure out what an oil firm is up to.  You have to have your own agency to do it.  In other words, it Texaco to Knowaco.”
        Benneli said, “Naw, S'u no co. He doesn't give a Flying A.”
        Julius shook his head.  “Benelli, I look at you, and gaze with amazement at the Gulf between your ears.”
        “Ey, Boss, what’s this direction mean, ‘upstage?’”
        “It’s what the management wants you to do, and if you do you’re out of a job.”  The duck glared at the pigeon.  “Say, Oil, you got a brother named Derek?”
        The Brooklynite frowned.
        “You look a bit down in the beak.  Must be those new heavy dentures.  I tell you what, we’ll pour Oil out over troubled waters.”
        “Ix-nay on dat,” the offended pigeon said.
        “Wouldn’t work anyway,” Jerry said after blowing another few notes through his instrument.  “Anyway, this bird is intoxicated.”
        “Sohio?”
        “Pretty much.”
        “We'll have to toss him out on his Ashland.”
        Jerry nodded gravely.  “Frankly, his manners have gone to Shell.  Besides, you should never toss Oil into the sea.  You’ll hurt the wildlife.”
        “The wildlife around here is hurting enough with you around,” Julius said.  "But don't think of it as 'oil-soaked wildlife' - think of it as 'chocolate moose.'"
        “What a crude joke.  Don’t you know moose are expensive?  In fact, they're deer.”  He swished his lutrine tail and asked, “By the way, what size chocolate moose?  How many cervines do you get?”
        “Just one.  The suggested cervine’s that blonde over there helping the magician.”  From the other wing Janet looked infuriated that she’d been dragged into the byplay.
        Jerry nodded sagely.  “Depends on how much you knead the doe, eh?”
        Janet’s voice rang out, “If you keep this up, the doe will knee'd you.” 
        Rollin put a paw on her elbow and shook his head as Jay came up to Jekyll and said quietly, “They say that the air is getting warm in the dining room, Jekyll.”
        “Oh, fine, fine.  So, we should get more air in here?”
        “I think so.”  The two wandered off.
        “I wonder if there’s enough room for more air . . . “ Jekyll’s voice trailed away as the duo went around the corner.
        Sensing that the crowd was losing interest, Jerry said, “I see that there’s a trolley system down here in Miami.  Who knew the Market-Frankford line ran all the way to Miami?  No wonder the PTC’s going bankrupt.”
        Julius shot back, “They started an extension, and well, you can't stop with just one..." 
        “But why Miami?” Jerry asked.
        “It was either that, or Paterson.  And who wants to go to Paterson?" Julius asked rhetorically.
        “Italian anarchists.”
        “So that's why Paterson looks like it's been bombed.”  Julius cocked an eye at the otter.  “A lot like this act.”
        “I’ll have you know I wowed ‘em in Miami.  Of course, that was Miami of Ohio – “
        “Philadelphia to Miami, via Miami of Ohio,” Julius said gravely.  “You know, the girls in Miami, Ohio wear skimpy bathing suits.  Unfortunately, they wear them in February.  Which is why there are so few girls left in Miami, Ohio.”
        Jerry was about to say something else, but his ears flicked at a murmur from the audience.  “I’d like to say a few more things, but I might be overstaying my welcome – “
        “Starting about five minutes after you got here.”
        “But right now, folks, we got a magic act for you.  Here they are, a fine example of womanhood – “
        “And a fine example of an old dog doing old tricks – “
        “Here they are, the Amazing Mystico and Janet!”  The band struck up a fanfare as Rollin and Willow took the stage.


        I resisted the urge to kick the duck and the otter.
        Mainly because I had trouble choosing which one deserved it most.
        I got sawed in half by Rollin, and the crowd applauded.  I could see Mike in the corner, applauding while talking to Gregory Teasdale.  Teasdale fils was keeping a weather eye on Teasdale mere as Papa continued to try to butter the old lady up.
        Mike and Papa seemed a bit standoffish toward each other, which meant that the rift was still there.
        Rollin had had an idea, so he brought out the sword box again.  The climax of the gag was when he reopened the box after showing that I had vanished.
        When he opened it, Nadine was in the box with Randolph.  The skunk femme gave a squeal and ran offstage, pursued by the little stinker.  Great fun, and it got us a lot of applause.
        As we finished up our act, Mike got up and walked out of the room.  Gregory wasted no time in crabbing Papa’s act in regard to his mother.  Papa looked very irritated that his defense had flown the coop, as it were.
        While Rollin and I bowed and curtsied and acknowledged the applause, I felt a gust of cooler air coming from the vents.
        About time, too.
        Unsurprisingly, Mike was waiting for me just offstage as Micky led the band in another solid jazz number.  After the music Lucille had come out on stage costumed to resemble Randolph.  The real Randolph walked up to her and the two went into a rather complicated bit as if they were posing in front of a mirror.  It struck me as rather odd, since Lucille was a vixen and Randolph a deer. 
        Their actions became a bit more complicated and frenetic with each passing moment until they gave up on imitating each other and started chasing each other around.  The crowd lapped it up, laughing uproariously.
        “Good show tonight,” Mike remarked.
        “Apart from the comedian,” I giggled, and he laughed.
        “Yeah.  I was wondering if you’d like a drink after the show.”
        “Well – “ I was eclipsed by a chorus of boos.  We looked out to see several thrown items littering the stage and Jerry stalking off, stage right. 
        Apparently his act had not gone well at all.
        I guess he shouldn’t have tried singing ‘Yankee Doodle.’
        I started flagging as I realized that we had to keep the show going for a bit longer.
        First, so Villy could bomb the pneumatique before Papa and Mike decided to send anyone down there.
        Second, to enable Barnie to get the microphones out of Papa’s digs.
        Think fast, Willow.
        “I’ve got an idea.”  I turned quickly to Mike.  “Can you get the waiters to go around with drinks?”  I had seen a few matrons over the course of the week ‘fortifying’ their cups and glasses.
        “Sure, why?”
        “Trust me on this.”  I gave him a quick peck on the cheek and passed the word quickly to the band and the chorus.

        The crowd’s mood was getting uglier as they started getting up to leave. 
        Heads turned as the band sounded a fanfare.
        And applause was general as the band started playing ‘Dixie.’
        Yours Truly was leading the chorus girls out, Nadine and I holding up a Confederate flag (one of the props from backstage) and singing along with the tune.  Cheers and even a few whoops sounded from the men in the room, and the women looked a bit happier.
        We went through two choruses of the song and stopped, center stage.
        I stepped forward, seeing that waiters were already circulating.  “Friends!  Ladies and gentlemen!” I called out.  “We have been privileged to play host this week to the Daughters of the Magnolia, who have helped keep alive the memories of those who gallantly gave their lives for the Confederacy!”
        No one could argue with that, except maybe the pigeon from Brooklyn and his wife.
        “To honor their memories, I propose a toast!”
        Cheers.
        “To General Robert E. Lee!”  Everyone drank.
        “To General Stonewall Jackson!”
        Everyone waited for another, but I suddenly drew a blank.  Civil War history was never my strong suit.
        Clarice rescued me, bless her.
        “To General Nathan Bedford Forrest!” and loud cheers erupted from one table of matrons.
        Nadine shouted out the next one, and I eased offstage for a moment.  Mike was back at his table and seemed very happy with me.
        The air was getting a bit cooler and smelled fresh.  Jekyll was passing by and I asked him, “Did you get the air conditioning running better?  It’s much nicer in here.”
        “Oh,” the lanky canine said, “we was lookin’ around, and we finds this big pipe behind the laundry.”
        My eyes went wide.
        “What did you do?”
        “Oh, we hooked a pipe up from that.  Nice cool air, and all,” and he shambled off.
        Oh, DAMN.
        And no way to warn Villy off.  Oh, well.  Everything else was going according to plan, at least.
        I went back out on stage as the roll call of the generals finally petered out. 
        As I took center stage from Nadine I whispered, “How are they?”
        The skunk giggled.  “By the time we got to Bragg, they were in no condition to.”
        I laughed and whispered something to Micky, who nodded.  Lucille simply glared at me, put out that I was stealing her spotlight.
        A drumroll and another fanfare, and I was front and center. 
        The band swung into an introduction, and several people recognized the tune and applauded.

We lived our little drama,
We kissed in a field of white,
And stars fell on Alabama,
Last night.

I can't forget the glamor,
Your eyes held a tender light,
And stars fell on Alabama,
Last night.

I never planned in my imagination,
A situation – so heavenly,
A fairy land where no one else could enter,
And in the center – just you and me.
My heart beat like a hammer,
My arms wound around you tight,
And stars fell on Alabama,
Last night.

        It’s not originally made to be a torch song, but I sang it like that.  I was certain that I made and held eye contact with Mike as I sang, letting him think that the song was solely for his benefit.  A few of the chorus girls sang along with me, as did a few of the audience members.
        And sure enough . . .
        Papa broke off from billing and cooing with Mrs. Teasdale to see Mike growing more twitterpated at me.  Enraged at what he undoubtedly saw as an affront to his sister, he started boxing the canine’s ears.  Mike, for his part, gave an inarticulate roar and grabbed the big cat by the throat.
        The ensuing fight – complete with tables being overturned, etc. - attracted the attention of the audience as the chorus girls started to sing ‘Dixie’ again.  I took advantage of circumstances to slip backstage.
        Rollin was waiting for me.  I said, “Please check and see if the others are almost done.  Time for us to shake our tails and get out of here.”
        “Right,” the Afghan said. 
        As he headed out I saw that silly little avian, Jay, walk past talking to Randolph.  They paused by one of the air vents and Jay said, “Harm could come to a growing boy with this dry air blowing.  Good thing you suggested dumping those dirty great big cans of oil in that tubule.”
        My blood ran cold.
        “You did WHAT?” I managed to say.
        Just then there was a rolling boom like thunder and I ducked back out onto the stage.  The dining room had started looking a bit smoky as the explosion had shaken plaster loose from the ceiling and dust had gotten kicked up.
        Right on time to hear a solid FOOMPH! 
        Followed by Jay’s lament, “YOU ROTTEN SWINE, YOU!”
        HONK!  HONK!
        From the tingling in my nose I could already tell that the room was filling up with atomized catnip oil.
        Then I realized something.
        Most of the Daughters of the Magnolia were of the feline persuasion.
        The band struck up a lively tune that soon collapsed into a series of crashing discords as the effect of the catnip sledgehammered into the crowd.
        My ears were burning, as was my nose.
        Thank the Lord for whitetail speed as I ran for the exit amid squeals and shrieks.  Quite a few of the matrons had chosen partners from among the men, it seemed.
        Others, well, seemed content to make do.
        Now I know what the Baptists mean when they say it could lead to dancing.
        Mike, his nose bloody and looking quite battered, loomed up in front of me.  His arms were open in a hug.
        I kicked him, right where he needed it least.
        “Dammit . . . Janet,” he gasped as he sank to the floor.
        With the door in sight, I managed to evade the grasp of Senator Padgett, just before the esteemed (and steaming) Senator was tackled down by two rather husky lynxesses.
        I hurdled over Julius and out into the night, and fresh air.  I could hear sounds of merry mayhem as the doors swung closed.


        “Please, you have to hurry!”  Cardamom said into the telephone, her voice pitched to a shrill tone that made her vocal chords twinge.  “And – and don’t send any felines!  Wha-wait!  What?  Why?  I think they’re all using –“ here her voice dropped to a whisper “- catnip.”  She hung up the phone and gathered up her suitcase.
        As she left her room and headed for the lobby she caught sight of Papa, thoroughly ensnared in a catnip haze and sporting two black eyes.  Popadopalous saw her and said, “Ohh, Mrs. Teasdale – Suzanna – “
        Cardamom had been waiting for this moment. 
        The sow punched him solidly in the nose and in her most imperious tones announced, “I’m leaving!  And I’m not coming back!  I haven’t been so humiliated in ALL MY LIFE!”
        She went around a corner and saw Barnie stepping out of his own room, carrying two suitcases.  One of them, she knew, was stuffed with diagrams and wire recordings.  Valuable evidence of a job well done and a thwarted criminal enterprise.
        She snorted a bit through her snout, smothering her laughter as a quite unladylike yowling could be heard from the direction of the dining room. 
        Barnie laughed.  “I’d say the place has gone down the tubes!"


        Villy had switched vehicles, leaving the truck in a certain lot and picking up a dark green Ford sedan.  As he drove up to the Hotel de Cocoanut he saw two paddy wagons pull up to the front entrance and disgorge a large number of officers, all of whom were wearing Great War-vintage gas masks. 
        A fire engine pulled up by a nearby hydrant, and after connecting the truck to the water supply, a group of firemen deployed a hose and lugged it into the hotel.
        The bull pulled to a stop as a crowd started to gather.  He climbed out of the sedan in time to see a phalanx of masked policefurs practically trample the duck who usually stood guard at the front desk.  The shock troops were backed up by the firemen, who started vigorously hosing down the dining room’s occupants.
        “Looks like the game’s getting called on account of rain,” and he grinned as he recognized Cardamom’s voice, if not her appearance.  She grinned back and asked, “Going my way?”
        He offered her his arm.  “Sure.  What say we take in a show at the Copacabana Club?”
        As he held the car door open for her, he saw Barnie boarding the trolley.  The two smiled at each other as Villy got behind the wheel.


        Wow.
        You certainly wouldn’t recognize the place.  The difference between its high-class ‘Before’ picture and its – well, ‘After’ picture – would astound you.
        The place smelled of smoke from the wrecked laundry and there was still a tiny astringent whiff of catnip in the dining room.  Everything was soaked in foul-smelling water drawn from the hydrant, and the survivors of the Daughters of the Magnolia were lined up in rows and covered in blankets.  Many were blissfully unconscious.
        No bets on when they’d finally lose those goofy smiles.
        Apparently the Miami Police and Fire Departments had some experience in these kinds of things.  Cold water had hosed down everyone in the affected area, and interviews were being taken and first aid was available for those who needed it.  Papa and Mike had already been hauled off in pawcuffs for public brawling and affray.
        From the looks of them, they seemed fairly affrayed.
        The poor Brooklyn pigeon and his sandpiper wife were sitting off in a corner.  They hadn’t seemed affected by the oil but were considerably grimy.  "This oil is contraband!" the police captain, Captain Easy, said in a loud voice.
        Earl yelled, "That's a lie, I vote a straight Democratic ticket!"  He flinched as his wife scrubbed at him.  “Take it easy, Olive!”
        “Ohhhhhh, dear," the sandpiper moaned as she dabbed at her husband’s feathers.
        In an opposite corner two seagulls who had been vacationing from California were still billing and cooing at each other.
        “Gertrude,” the man whispered.
        “Oh, Heathcliff . . . “
        Mrs. Teasdale, it seemed, had been immune to the seductive wiles of the Demon Herb, and she was talking with her son as Julius suddenly staggered into view.
        "Julius!" Mrs. Teasdale cried as she burst through the police cordon, scattering the smaller officers out of her path.  The sow caught the duck as he toppled and eased him to the ground.  "Oh, Julius . . . "
        He took the cigar from his beak and coughed, looking up at her as he said softly, "Ohh . . . Oh, Suzanna, oh don't you cry for me . . . "
        My ears flicked at the sound of strings, and I peered into the wreckage of the dining room to see Randolph setting the remnants of the piano upright and plucking out ‘Taps’ on the string. 
        As a harpist, he was a good piano player.
        Amid the litter of instruments and debris I could see two tails, one reptilian and the other a vulpine brush, both in vigorous motion.
        “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, MICKY!”
        Thankfully I couldn’t see what was going on.
        I don’t wish to know that.
        I checked my watch.
        Time for ‘Janet’ to disappear – for good, this time.
        As I headed out of the place I ran across Benelli.  “I’d stay out of there if I were you,” I said.
        “Why?”
        “There might still be some catnip floating around.  Are you allergic?" 
        "No, I-a never missa Mass."
        Yeah.  Time to go.

        There were quite a few people who were very interested in what we’d found.  People like the G-Men, the Narcotics Bureau, the Coast Guard and the Miami Police.
        It looked as if Mike and Papa Andreas were going to be a bit busy making license plates for a long time to come.
        My fellow team members scattered to the four winds, as Minkerton teams are wont to do after a mission.  We would have very little contact with each other – in fact, Minkerton’s doctrine required teams to stay split up, in case anyone should spot us and put one and one together.
        Me?  Well, I made it as far as a very nice hotel in Atlantic City, with a great view of the ocean from a private balcony.  A great place to relax a bit before my next assignment.
        Sure enough, as soon as I thought about my next mission someone knocked on the door.  I got up from my chair and answered it.  “Yes?”
        “Wire for you, Miss,” the boy said.  I tipped him and he left as I wondered if I would get to hang myself with it.
        To my pleasant surprise, it was from Allan:

        WELL DONE TEAM LEADER STOP TAKE TWO WEEKS VACATION BEFORE NEXT MISSION WILLOW STOP

        Well!  That was certainly great news.
        And two whole weeks, at that.
        Hmm.
        I drummed my fingers on the arm of my chair as I looked out at the Atlantic.  Two weeks . . .
        The first of May was fast approaching.
        Yeah, a nice long working vacation.  I think it’s high time I visited New Haven City for May Day.


end