The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 38
“I still can’t get over my failure,” McGregor was saying for the umpteenth time.
“Oh, for heaven’s saki, let it go, Ibrahim,” protested Agent. “It’s been three days now and you haven’t stopped whining. Drop it!”
“But I should’ve solved that last riddle at the tee party, Secret,” bleated McGregor.
“And I should’ve hit you where it hurts before I hit the ceiling,” cried Agent and hit the jackpot; a slew of coins dropped clankingly into the slot machine’s tray.
Ignoring the wrath, McGregor asked, “You know what I find preoccupying?”
“What?” spouted Agent.
“Dogsworth.”
“What about him?”
“His mind seems to be elsewhere these days. I mean, when we related our being led astray and all, he seemed to take it in his stride.”
“You have a point,” admitted Agent thoughtfully.
“I think we should …” began McGregor, not completing his sentence.
“You’re not suggesting …” started Agent, apparently suffering from the same nonterminating syndrome.
McGregor stood up and said solemnly, “You know what Dogsworth always says: Difficult dilemmas call for everyday deeds.”
Twenty minutes later the two agents were seated in the Bark and Whinny, each holding a solid cup containing a hot black liquid.
“Something’s going on, Ibrahim. I can smell it,” said Agent.
“I can smell it too, Secret,” avowed McGregor. “I think it’s Colombian.”
“Definitely a Brazilian blend,” declared Agent positively.
“I say we confront Dogsworth!” proclaimed McGregor, emboldened by his courage.
“Agreed,” said Agent with determination, and added, “Let’s go now.” The two rose as one, and exited as three fifty. The waitress ran after them, crying, “You forgot your change!” “Thanks,” said Agent. “That’s our chicken feed.”
“What’s that black chick doing out here?” asked McGregor outside the Bark and Whinny.
“That’s no chick,” laughed Agent. “That’s a bird.”
The raven eyed them impassively, totally unmindful of the disagreement as to his designation. Silently, he handed each a pink envelope.
Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Jefferson was softly humming a military march.
“Silence!” commanded General Napoleon Jefferson, at which the colonel assumed a taciturn yet attentive posture. “From this point onward, and until the operation is over, we maintain complete radio silence. Is that clear?”
The colonel saluted. “Yes, ma’am!” he cried militarily, and added, “Can I turn on the television?”
“No!” barked his wife. “TV silence as well!” She motioned with her fist. The two flung their ropes through the small window and proceeded to rappel down expertly. At the bottom they crouched behind a large cabinet, and waited for the ministers to finish their meeting. They broke cover and began stealing through the huge room, with its dozens of printing presses. The duo was headed toward a nondescript door at the other end. They reached their destination undiscovered, only to find a group of grease-covered workers in overalls blocking their way. The men were holding an animated discussion.
“I tell you,” said a tall fellow in earnest, “the four-dimensional nature of the space-time continuum precludes such singular events.”
“What about superstrings, Ernest?” asked a short stocky guy eagerly.
“Igor, Igor, Igor, there you go again with your superstrings,” sighed a third worker, who was shorter than Ernest but taller than Igor. “What about some proof, eh? It’s nothing but a theory.”
General Jefferson decided she’d had enough, and went on to demonstrate her proficiency at general relativity. She stepped out of her hiding place behind a large printing press, and said commandingly, “Einstein says, ‘raise your hands’.” The workers all raised their hands. “Einstein says, ‘jump on one foot’.” The workers all jumped on one foot. “Einstein says, ‘get out of here’.” The workers all got out of here.
The general motioned to her husband, and the two entered through the plain door with the small worn-out sign reading Archives. They spent twenty minutes inside, rummaging through various files, placing several choice items in two black silk bags — one per raider.
Once done, they backtracked to the waiting ropes and climbed deftly out of the building.
Colonel Jefferson was all keyed up. “What a treasure trove!”
His wife permitted herself a minute smile of victory. “I told you the Yellow Sun had one of the best vine cellars in town.” She tapped her black bag and said, “Good job, colonel.”
“Thank you, ma’am!” saluted her husband. The marital pair walked back to their vehicle in silent bliss.
The raven, who had been patiently perching on the vehicle’s hood, took off in a flutter of wings as soon as the two had arrived, and handed each a pink envelope.
“We should do that more often,” Xena Hammerhead was saying.
“Yes, it was such fun, being on the open sea and all,” concurred Eve Apples. The two were having lunch at Kafkaesque, the small restaurant at the corner of Samsa and Gregor. “And the HMS Thatcher is such a nice boat.”
“Ship,” corrected Hammerhead, whose lawyerly bones could not suffer verbal misuse.
“Gesundheit,” said Apples.
Hammerhead decided to change the subject. The subject, however, was not going to take this sitting down. The two got up and fought for a while, until the judge adjudicated against the subject. The latter moved forthwith to Ohio and began writing his memoirs, a project that would result seven years later in a seven-volume tome.
“Ibrahim and Secret have been very busy these past few days,” remarked Hammerhead, as she took a sip of red wine.
Apples sipped too and said, “Yes, ever since they were ordered by Dogsworth to tail Myx.”
“That tee party story. What a riot,” laughed Hammerhead, as she munched a homemade munchkin.
“Ibrahim doesn’t think so,” returned Apples solemnly. “He’s still upset about not solving that last riddle.”
“Don’t worry, he’ll get over it,” said Hammerhead dismissively.
“Are you sure?” asked Apples worriedly.
“It’s the law,” replied Hammerhead decisively, and signaled the waiter to bring them the check.
But it was the raven who brought them the bill. He also handed them two pink envelopes.
“Billy Gates, you stop playing with your food right this instant, and eat your broccoli,” commanded Dorothy Gates.
“But I hate broccoli,” griped the five-year-old.
“It’s good for you. Food for thought,” explained Gates.
“Mommy, Mommy,” cried three-year-old Barcelona, “look how I eat my awk-li.” She went on to demonstrate, with a full one-fifth of the broccoli actually making it into the confines of her small mouth.
“Look how nicely Lona’s eating,” remarked Gates to her sullen son.
Just then the front door opened and Fenestra Gates walked in. “Hi, honey, I’m home.”
“We’re in the kitchen, dear,” called his wife.
A moment later, her husband poked his head in the doorway. “What’s for dinner?”
“Broccoli,” announced Dorothy cheerily.
“I hate broccoli,” groused Fenestra.
Dorothy shifted her gaze from her husband to her son, and muttered something about food predilections being genetic.
“Mommy, Daddy, look — a crow!” shouted Billy, pointing excitedly to the windowsill.
Silently, the raven flew in and handed one pink envelope to Mommy and one to Daddy. He then took off and disappeared through the window as noiselessly as he’d entered, not even bothering to correct Billy’s ornithological error.
“To score points in a game of towelball,” said Q as he steered the car, “you have to grab the towel by taking a shower. However, in order to shower you must be in possession of the towel.”
“Excellent!” cried General General in delight at his driver’s pithy observation. “What an exquisite catch-22!”
The car turned a corner and stopped before General’s headquarters. The officer quickly alighted and hurried into his office to ponder the previous evening’s events. He stopped cold when he saw who was perching on his desktop.
The raven dropped the pink envelope and flew out the window.
“What a bummer,” said Neiky Baggins crabbily.
“Have you any idea as to who might have stolen the Rose Eta stone?” asked May Day Henrikson.
“I’ll bet you Myx has a hand in this,” bet Baggins.
“Why do you say that?” questioned Henrikson.
Baggins shrugged her shoulders. “Just a feeling I’ve had these past few days. Something’s not right.”
“Luckily, it doesn’t matter anymore,” said Henrikson gravely. “The chain reaction has been initiated.”
“Yes, luckily,” murmured Baggins and sat motionless for a long time, enwrapped in thought. “Maybe it’s time to confront him,” she suggested eventually.
“Confront Noro?” said Henrikson in a doubtful tone. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not?” asked Baggins defiantly.
Henrikson was about to explain why not when the raven arrived with two pink envelopes.
“You seem a bit parched, Bartholomew,” said Myx pleasantly. “May I offer you something in the way of a beverage?”
“A martini would be nice,” replied the seagull aridly. “Stirred, not shaken.”
Myx busied himself in preparing the drink, while Skypie undressed. “It sure feels good to get out of this raven costume,” he admitted, seeming quite relieved. “Haven’t flown so much since the last migration.”
“I’m glad you agreed to spread your wings,” said Myx, handing Skypie the drink.
Skypie sipped from the proffered glass and admitted, “It was kind of fun, you know. Just seeing the surprise on their faces.”
Myx laughed heartily. “I can imagine.”
“What’s in those envelopes, anyway?” asked Skypie curiously.
Myx walked over to his desk, and returned with a pink sheet of paper. “Here,” he offered the seagull, “take a look for yourself.”
Skypie bent over the invitation. It read:
You are cordially invited to attend a ballet performance by
Theotokopoulos Domenikos
Tomorrow, 8pm, at the New York Ballet Hall.
Following the spectacle
Noro Myx
Will reveal it all.
Formal attire is required.
