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  9 November 2007

Valentines Dazed
by E.O. Costello, M. Mitchell Marmel, & Walter D. Reimer
January & February 1937, from some different points of view.

Chapter 17


"Valentines Dazed"
by E.O. Costello,  M. Mitchell Marmel, & Walter D. Reimer
All characters © their respective creators

  Chapter 17

    Lodge was looking at me with a sense of great concern.  Or maybe it wasn't me, as he occasionally opened the door to the suite and peered outside.  I wasn't sure of what he was looking for, and frankly, I don't think he was all that sure, not that it mattered.

    I grumbled, and tossed on a pair of slacks and a polo shirt.

    "Sir?"

    "Grhrpml."

    "Sir, are you proposing to go out like that?"

    "Aghrghrlghl."  Now, I will readily admit this is not the sort of dialogue that has them in the aisles whenever Noel Cowherd's stuff plays in the West End, but I was a buck of greatly disturbed thoughts, and I wasn't in any mood to bandy wits with Lodge this afternoon.

    "Sir, permit me to suggest..."

    I turned to Lodge, flared my nostrils, and let out a steaming snort that would have done credit to the finest product of the Baldwin Locomotive Works.  Lodge merely bowed, and held the door open for me.

    I slouched down to the lobby of the hotel in a whirl of emotions.   Mostly anger at myself for being a greedy, selfish and rotten buck. I had taken advantage of a helpless and vulnerable doe and...well...

    This was all something like out of one of those Russian novels. Well, except Napoleon wasn't in it.  I think having Napoleon enter into it somewhere is a rule for Russian novels.  That, at having a length requiring a good solid six months' read.  Not that there's much to do in Muscow this time of year.

    It was thus wrapped up in literary matters that I didn't see where I was going, and literally bumped into someone who, similarly wrapped up, wasn't watching where he was going.  I looked up, and locked eyes with that hunted target, Leslie duCleds. He seemed in a whirl and a daze at the same time, and stood blinking in confusion.  This was a dog in need of some tea, and in a hurry.

    I gripped him by the elbow, and propelled him toward the entrance to L'Etoile.  For some reason, Andre was not at his usual post, but that rather pleasant looking minkess with the American accent was there.

    "Good afternoon!  Would you like..."

    She stopped at that point, and blinked, her nose twitching violently.  She looked at each of us in turn, wide-eyed, before recovering her composure.

    "Umm...separate tables?"

    Les spoke up first.  "Table for two," was the growl.  "And somewhere where the two of us can talk."  At this point, he shot a glare at me.  For the lack of anything better to do, I glared back at him.

    The minkess took two luncheon menus.  She fanned herself with them and coughed, before leading us both to a back table, and fleeing for all she was worth.

*****

    I didn't know what was eating Reggie, and frankly, I didn't give a damn, as I had issues of my own.  The waiter came over to take our drink orders.

    Reggie:  "Water."

    Me: "Triple whisky, straight up."

    Speaking of triples, the waiter did a triple take and looked slack jawed at each of us.  Reggie then did something I didn't know a deer could do: he crested, baring his teeth, and growled.  The waiter fled to the bar and filled our orders.

    Both of us sat gloomily at the table until our drinks arrived. The waiter, perhaps from force of habit, gave the whisky to Reggie and the water to me.  This set off two sets of cresting, baring and growling until matters were rectified.  The furs sitting at the nearby tables had begun to move away.  They could probably sense danger, as to a fur their noses and ears were quivering.

    Some orders were snarled at the waiter, who had sufficient reflexes to catch the menus thrown at him, and he vamoosed off to parts unknown.  I drained my whisky in one long pull, and went to the bar myself to get a refill.  The bartender, seeing me coming, splashed one quickly in a glass and slid it down the bar before ducking under it.

    When I got back is when the fireworks started, and I'll admit I was the one with a match.

*****

    I was staring at my hooves, in a mood as black as the late-afternoon weather outside, when Les came back from the bar. He'd already downed his first whisky and was well into his second, when he sniffed the air.  And then sniffed it a few more times.  I was on the verge of snarling at him to either stop sniffing me or give me flowers, when he spoke up.

    "Hell's bells, where did you spend the morning?  You smell like a Macau cathouse.  Or doehouse, rather."

    Having launched this demarche, he took another pull at the whisky, and wove slightly unsteadily on his feet.

*****

    Reggie, for his part, flattened his ears and flared his nostrils, an action which caused him to cough violently.

    "For the love of God!  As if you were one to bloody talk!  Did you charge this to duCleds Chemicals, or was this on your personal account?!"

*****

    It took about twenty seconds for the full import of this bit of return fire to fully penetrate the whisky fumes in Les' brain, as well as any other fumes that were fogging the general vicinity.  Once it hit home, he drained the rest of his whisky, and fired the empty glass into parts unknown.

    "You want to repeat that to my muzzle, you booze-soaked hatrack?"

*****

    To the extent I had any Irish in me -- and that may have been limited to the Jameson's -- it was definitely up, now.  I didn't care that for the second time in just a few hours, I was on the verge of picking a fight with an angry deer.  The hell with it.  Seen one angry buck, you've seen 'em all.

    Reggie pushed back the chair, and slowly unfolded all of himself until we were practically muzzle-to-muzzle.  He may be a twit, but I'll give it to him that he's no coward.

    "Read my bloody lips, you.  Shall I put this in words of one bloody syllable?!"

    This was accompanied by two paws being placed against my chest, and a good hard shove being administered.

*****

    Les staggered back a few feet, growled, advanced, and shoved me back.  This continued for a few rounds, giving the assorted other furs (many of whom were hiding behind the buffet table) the impression that Arthur Murray had come out with the latest dance craze, the Pier Six Cha-cha-cha.

    Both of us had cocked our fists, and were ready to demonstrate the fine old art of self-defense, when a magisterial cough interrupted us.

*****

    I was picking the spot right between Reggie's eyes where I was going to plug him when I turned around.  (Luckily for me, Reggie turned around as well, thus removing temptation on his part to sucker-punch me.)  There, standing a few feet from us, was an enormous black poodle in a chef's outfit.  His two paws were occupied with steaming plates of rice pilaf, which meant that the large and murderous-looking kitchen knife stuck in his belt was not being used.

    Yet.

    With a silent smile, he placed the plates on the table.  He then straightened up, and took the deepest breath I'd ever seen, exhaling slowly and wagging his tail.  He repeated this procedure twice, and his mood, if anything, seemed to improve.

    He snapped his fingers, and when this didn't get a reaction, he snapped his fingers again, briskly, twice and called out in a voice used to dealing with sous-chefs.

    "Mam'selle Watermaster!"

    The minkess we had seen earlier peered out with an expression of worry from behind the maitre d'hotel's station.

    "Alors, ma petite.  Je voudrais vous parler, s'il vous plait."

    The minkess gulped, and tiptoed over, shivering quite a bit.

    The chef flicked a paw in our general direction.  "The gentlefurs, they please me.  They are not to be charge for the lunch.  It is to be placed on the account of Chef Joseph.  Comprenez-vous, ma cherie?"

    The minkess nodded, blinked and began to cough again, her eyes slightly watering.

    The chef closed his eyes, and took another deep breath.  I suspect some of the other diners were finally breathing as well, when the air was rent by an angry question.

    "Que passe-t'il ici?!?"

*****

    Into the dining room stamped one rather peevish squirrel, who immediately strode into our midst.  The minkess seemed to be nearly overwhelmed with the new fumes that immediately hove into our ken, and she fled for the relative safety and fresh air of the maitre d'hotel's station.

    The arrival of Andre was right in the middle of a deep breath by Chef Joseph, who spluttered in surprise, and then in anger.

    "Comment?!?  Comment?!?  Qu'est-ce que c'est?"

    Andre stood on tip-toe and shrieked, waving two smallish rodent fists above his head.  "I am the rage incroyable!  I am the anger!"

    Chef Joseph glared at him.  "You are the ivre mort."

    Which seemed to be the case.  Andre's black tie outfit was soaked. Some of it, at least, was water, I assumed from the weather outside. However, Andre apparently was not familiar with the Anglo-Saxon customs regarding the mixing of whisky and water, which is usually done in a glass, not on one's clothes.  Certainly, Andre's high-pitched shrieking and general shaking indicated that he was well within the grip of John Barleycorn.  Chef Joseph was not impressed. Granted, it would take much to impress a Paris chef.

    "Why you no come to work for the lunch?  Why must Chef Joseph impose on the nice Mam'selle Watermaster to take the place of the likes of you?"

    "I have been outraged!"

    Chef Joseph crested.  "Pah!  So you were at this Chanticleer Club, eh? A fine way to spend l'apres-midi, when you should be at work."

    Andre bounced up and down on his feet, pointing a shaking paw at me.  "I have been the outraged by THAT!"

    Chef Joseph's reaction was a masterpiece.  It consisted largely of an eyebrow that was raised slowly, millimeter by millimeter.

    "Eh bien.  This afternoon?"

    Andre's voice went up twenty decibels and three octaves.  "YES! YES!  ARE YOU DEAF?"

    Chef Joseph's other eyebrow went up, slowly and silently.  "Eh bien.  Non.  I am neither the deaf, as you seem to think, nor the dumb.  Permit me to suggest that you use your senses, and observe the odor on M. Buckhorn."

    "I WOULD NOT MAKE THE SMELLING OF M. BUCKHORN POUR TOUT LA THE DE L'INOCHINE!"

    The eyebrows were lowered slightly, to the accompaniment of tapping feet.  "Pfui.  You would not recognize the smell, anyway.  I am thinking you are the liar.  It is most clear what these gentlefurs have been doing. As well as you."

    "I HAVE BEEN THE GRIEVOUS ASSAULT WITH THE WHISKY!  CAN YOU NOT SMELL IT?"

    "I am thinking, ma petite ivrogne, that it would be impossible not to smell you.  Disgraceful.  Here you are, you make with the how-you-say..."

    Les, weaving slightly on his feet, chimed in.  "Slacking off."

    "Eh bien.  Les mots juste.  Merci, M. duCleds.  Yes.  You make with the slacks off all the afternoon..."

    "I DENY THIS!  THIS IS THE FOUL SLANDER!"

    Chef Joseph began to lose his temper.  "BUT YOU SAY JUST NOW YOU WERE OUTRAGED, AND NOW YOU SAY YOU NO HAVE THE SLACKS OFF?"

    "IT IS SO!  IT IS SO!  M. BUCKHORN, HE MAKE THE GREAT OUTRAGE OF ANDRE D'ARBES!  I WANT THE CONSTABLES!  I WANT THEM RIGHT NOW!"

    "I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW OF WHAT IS IT YOU DO AT YOUR CLUB!  YOU WILL NOT BE MAKING OF THE CONSTABLE PLAY ACTING IN MY RESTAURANT, COMPRENEZ-VOUS?!?"

    "YOU DO NOT SPEAK OF MY CLUB LIKE SO!"

    "YES, I NEED THE WINE...TO WASH MY MOUTH OUT!!!"



*****

    The patrons had begun to dive behind the buffet table again.  For such a small table, it was amazing how many furs could fit behind it.

    "JE SAIS!!!  QUAND VOUS NE FAITES PAS LA CUISINE, MOI, ANDRE D'ARBES, JE SAIS QUE VOUS FAITES!!!!"

    "OH-HO!  DITES-TU, MA PETITE?"

    "OUAIS, JE DIS!"

    The proceedings were interrupted by a rhythmic tapping sound, which turned out to be a small, murderous looking sap.  Who was holding a blackjack.

    "Lissen, youse.  I've had a long day.  I've had a long, HARD day. I AIN'T in th' mood t'be nice, so I AIN'T gonna say please, an' I'm only gonna say it once.  What's th' beef, here?"

    Andre pointed a shaking paw at Reggie.  "I have been outraged by that gentlefur!"

    Sergeant Brush looked less than convinced.  "Uh-hunh.  Him?"

    "Ouais!"

    "When?"

    "This afternoon!"

    "What time?"

    "I know not what time, I no look at the watch when this happen."

    A brief look of nausea crossed Sergeant Brush's face.  Andre continued, oblivious.

    "As you can smell, I am..."

    "Drunk offen yer tailfur."

    "I deny this!"

    "Smells like dat t'me."

    "It is so!  It is so! Why do you not smell the M. Buckhorn, eh?"

    Sergeant Brush rolled his eyes, tilted his head, and sniffed.  And seemed to promptly regret it, as he began to cough and splutter, his eyes watering.  He looked at Reggie with a mixture of surprise and puzzlement, and then looked at me.  And back at Reggie.  And back at me.  And back at Reggie.

    "See!  See!  What is it that Andre tell you?"

    The copper turned around, and glared at the nut-muncher.  "Lissen, I doesn't like my time bein' wasted, see?"

    "But I..."

    "Don't t'ink I doesn't know how yez feel about cops, you.  I don't want no part of it, see?  Now beat it, an' sleep it off somewhere, get me?  Or I'll run yez in." This was accompanied by a menacing twirl of the blackjack in a black paw.

    Andre glowered at Reggie.  "Oh-ho.  You think you get the best of Andre d'Arbres again, do you now?  You no have the fat cheetah to bail you out, now.  You mark words, Andre will have his revenge!"

    And with an angry flick of his tailfur, Andre stomped out of the restaurant.

    The patrons, relieved, began to drift back to their tables.  Chef Joseph, chuckling merrily, advised Miss Watermaster that our drinks were to be charged to his account as well, and he trotted off back to the kitchen.  Miss Watermaster, glad of an excuse, fled to the safety of the bar to carry out her orders.  This just left the two of us facing Sergeant Brush, who pointed a finger at each of us in turn.

    "Now, lissen.  I gots my paws full dealin' wit' all sortsa stuff as it is.  So I doesn't knows what youse is up ta.  So, I'm askin' ya.  Only oncet.  KEEP IT IN THE DAMN CLOSET, WILL YA?"

    And with an angry kick at the maitre d'hotel's station, he stomped off.

*****

    I drooped my ears and looked in embarrassment at Les.  Les, for his part, seemed to have cooled off rather dramatically, almost as much as the rice pilaf on the table.  We each sat down and picked at our plates.

    "Errrrrrr...Les?  Look, dash it all, I'm..."

    Les sighed, closed his eyes, and waved a weary paw.

    "We are going to speak of this no more."

    Given the way that furs were whispering in the dining room, I thought that statement was a bit on the side of optimism.


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