The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 12
“Uhum?” griped the tall dwarf. “That’s all you have to say? We drove around town all morning, were made fools of, only to discover it was you we’d been chasing — and all you’ve got to say now is ‘Uhum’?”
“Patience is best served with a slice of lemon,” said Myx gravely, as he extinguished the unlit pipe and stuck it in his mouth. “First, let’s hear from John how successful his hacking has been.”
“Uhum — ” started Doe.
“Would you all please stop uhumming!” yelped the tall dwarf, rolling her eyes and r’s.
“Sorry,” said Doe humbly. “Hum … My hacking has yielded a few interesting tidbits of information. For one thing, I know who Mac is.” The three detectivettes and the one detective pricked up their ears, wrinkled their noses, and barked twice. Doe was totally at ease.
“Who?” asked the small giant.
“Who?” asked the tall dwarf.
“Who?” asked Lipps.
Everyone turned to Myx. “All right, all right,” he remarked resignedly and asked, “Who?”
“His real name is Charles Dodgson. He was born on an Island in the Atlantic called” — Doe stopped to glance at the flickering computer screen — “England. His parents were of humble means, owning but a modest two-room flat and a place called London. It seems little Charles had been quite a happy young boy until the age of seven, when his parents had decided it was time for him to become accustomed to island food, which consists mainly of a strange concoction called fish ’n’ chips. The boy had refused adamantly, and — after much ado — ran away from home to join the circus. Over the years he’d developed his own very popular act, which consisted of sticking his head into the mouth of a bag of fries while juggling seven hamburgers — a record, mind you, only recently broken posthumously by one Reg Rubmah, a former Swedish prime minister and champion tic-tac-toe player. At seventeen Charles had decided to take leave of this most promising career, opting for the lucrative trade of arms dealing.”
“Very interesting,” sang Myx in E minor.
“Hold your horses,” said Doe jovially. “You haven’t yet heard the best part — who his parents are.”
“Who?” asked the small giant.
“Who?” asked the tall dwarf.
“Who?” asked Lipps.
“Whooooooo?” whinnied Myx, apparently influenced by the horses held.
Doe lowered his head in what appeared to be shame. “First, Noro,” he said softly, “I’ve got a small confession: I know absolutely nothing about computers.”
“Then how in tarnation did you find out all this information?” amazed Lipps.
A painful look appeared on Doe’s face. “I knew all of this beforehand. You see, I’m one of the parents in question.”
“You’re Mac’s … I mean Charles’s father?” cried the small giant in shock.
“No,” negated Doe. “Charles’s father was a man named Lewis Dodgson.”
As usual, Myx was quick to recover and even quicker to understand. “The logical conclusion of which points to the fact that you’re young Charles’s — ”
“Mother,” interjected Doe. A stunned silence enveloped them all, engulfing in the rarest of moments even the great Noro Myx.
But the famous detective’s silence did not last long. After a moment he said with absolute sangfroid, “Lady, would you care to introduce yourself?”
“By all means,” smiled the woman. “My name is Jane Dodgson, though these days I like to go by my maiden name: Doe. I’m John’s and Anonymous’s sister.”
“If it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t,” mumbled Myx. “That’s logic.”
“Logic my bass,” called the tall dwarf, who tended to sprinkle b’s when she was ubset. “What the bell is going on here?”
“Not much,” smiled Myx. “We seem to have lost one president yet again. On the other hand,” he added charmingly, “we’ve gained a sister.”
Lipps cut in decisively. “Let’s get this show back on track. How did you come to replace John?”
“Well,” replied the newly discovered addition to the Doe tribe, “you may have noticed my likeness to John. In fact, when we were little, people often said we were like two bees in a bod. Anyway, John would sometimes call on me to sit in for him when he wanted to take the day off.”
“You mean the President of the United States would let his sister take over — just like that?” asked the small giant disbelievingly.
“Oh, don’t be so stiff,” Jane Doe brushed her off with a fine-tooth comb. “It’s not like I was asked to replace the veep — only the pres. What’s the big deal? All I had to do was look grayly, act gravely, and finish my gravy.”
“Quite!” boomed Myx. “Being president is like riding a tricycle — even your baby sister can do it.”
“Excuse me,” intervened the tall dwarf emphatically, “I’d like to point out that the plot is not advancing.”
“Definitely knot,” said Myx forcefully, “and a fine knot at that.”
The tall dwarf sprang to her feet, placed her hands on her hips, and spoke while simultaneously moving her lips. “Would someone please get this plot going somewhere!”
Myx stood up meaningfully, cast a highly meaningful look around the room, and in a voice full of meaning said, “Uhum.”
Twice.
“Jesus,” Charles Dodgson was saying, “you can’t be serious?”
“Now, now, let’s not be so rash in using the C word,” replied billionaire contractor Jesus Cohen. “I most definitely can be serious. And right now I am.”
“Jesus, please, I can’t do this!” Dodgson — aka Mac — was obviously in anguish.
“There you go again using the C word, my boy. Come, now, you can do it.”
The two men were seated at the opposing ends of an unadorned table within the confines of a fine culinary establishment, a steaming dish betwixt the twain. Dodgson was facing what was perhaps the hardest challenge in all his life. More difficult than the fries-and-hamburgers act. More dangerous than any of his wily deals with sundry generals. Slowly, he tuned out the hubbub in the restaurant, entering that special state of intense concentration he’d learned to master as a boy in the circus. He could hear the ticking seconds of some faraway clock, the cry of a baby as it came to realize it had just failed Medieval Lit 101, the delicate footsteps of a bride being led across the aisle, the beating heart of said bride’s groom as he watched his sweetheart marching alongside his bride.
Dodgson was at one with the city. And then, before you could say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, the deed was done. He came out of the trance and gazed tiredly — yet triumphantly — at Cohen.
“I knew you were up to it,” said the billionaire, who was so wealthy he could afford to fly around in disposable airplanes built of Swiss chocolate.
“Thanks, Jesus,” said Dodgson. “I needed this confidence booster. You were right — if I can eat a Whopper, I can do anything.”
“Indeed, my boy,” smiled Jesus Cohen. “Now you’re ready to face him.”
“By any measure General Ya Hoo was a great man,” President Doe began his eulogy. “Although he was the shortest general in US history Ya was capable of discharging the tallest orders. Despite his thick orange glasses he had immense vision — especially when not looking. The campaign against Britain is already mandatory material in all military-cooking schools. His recent capturing of three knights and a queen through the use of a blanquette de grenouilles à la coque — a French dish guaranteed to frog your enemies — was simply” — the fake president coughed twice and hiccupped thrice for dramatic enhancement — “delicious!”
A polite round of applause emanated from the crowd surrounding the orange coffin draped with the customary drapes. Various protagonists could be seen in the crowd: Eve Apples was hugging her favorite Teddy (nicknamed “Bear” due to his fondness of honeys); Dorothy Gates stood scratching, while Fenestra Gates at her side keened incessantly “Stop scratching!”; Jennifer Love wore black; Xena Hammerhead wore out the rest; General General stood between Captain Jefferson and Lieutenant Colonel Jefferson, in a magnificent display of attention.
The president went on to recount a number of General Hoo’s career milestones, including the victorious triumph at the Battle of Tittle-Tattle, his magnificent yet tragically short-lived portrayal of J. J. in Days of Our Wives, and — of course — the famous affair of the crème brûlée. “His gallant death in a shoe accident,” the president concluded, “echoes the way he lived: a noble man whose foot was always in the door. He shall be sorely missed.” With that, the faux president stepped back and a military band began playing the national ant hem, the crowd bowing its heads and hawing along. The customary gun salute ensued, followed by a brusque shower of dead pigeons.
All in all it was a happy funeral.
“Are you sure you’re up to the task?” the president asked General General, as the two marched side by side on the way back to their cars.
“I’m confident I can fill Hoo’s shoes!” said General earnestly.
“Small shoes …” mumbled the president.
“Still,” cried General, “I can do it. I know I can take over Hoo’s campaign against Britain. ‘Long Live the Queen’ and all that. Piece of Cake.”
“Okay, the job’s yours.” The president tapped the general’s shoulder as he got into Auto One.
A look of pride took hold of the general’s face. “Uhm, sir?” he uhmed.
“Yes, Private?” said Doe pleasantly.
“Can you give me a lift back into town? My car’s just gone on the blink.”
“Sure, sure, hop in the back. Just don’t mess up the seat covers like you did last time.”
“It’s really quite simple,” Myx was saying.
The shiny hamburger wrapper carrying the message UI2NT21MT2 lay on the table, having been carefully examined by all those present, in addition to a detailed sniff by the neighbor’s dog.
“So what does it mean?” asked Lipps.
“Elementary e-talk,” replied Myx. “When the Net was in its infancy, sending messages was slow and expensive. Every character counted. So the early users had developed a dialect of simple shortcuts, like ‘U’ for ‘YOU’, ‘2’ for ‘TO’, and so on. Really, just dropping unnecessary redundancies. Simplicity incarnate. That’s all there is to this message.”
“So?” said the tall dwarf tiredly.
“So,” echoed Myx, “the ‘UI’ means ‘You and I’, of course.”
“Of course,” echoed the small giant.
“Of course,” re-echoed Myx. “‘2NT21’ means ‘Tonight at 21:00’. And ‘MT2’ — ”
“And ‘MT2’?” echoed the small giant.
“And ‘MT2’,” re-echoed Myx, “informs us of the location of the meeting: at the fine yellow-M restaurant in Times Square.”
“Times Square,” echoed the tall dwarf.
“We must stop meeting in this echo chamber,” commented the small giant.
“No,” said Myx gravely, “we must stop echoing in this meeting chamber. And now, if you please — ” The detective fought for a while with the neighbor’s dog until he finally managed to grab his coat. “ — I’ve got a date.”
