Tzimmes Cracked Corn (And I Don’t Care)
A Spontoon Island story
© 2022 Walter Reimer
(Characters courtesy of M. Mitch Marmel, J.T. Urie and E.O. Costello. Thanks!)

Thumbnail art by  sethtriggs

22.


Reggie:

My own problems notwithstanding . . .

‘Notwithstanding.’ That’s a very strange word, isn’t it? I mean, if you were supposed to meet me at the train station, and I instead went to the pub, you could say that I was ‘notwithstanding’ because I certainly wasn’t with you, was I? You’d be standing there on the platform at St. Pancras, waiting for the 8:15 to wherever, while I’d be happily tucking into a pint.

Well, that’s neither here nor there. Which is another interesting expression.

Anyway.

I was determined that my little problem (the fact that I’d used the wrong set of figures, and been rebuffed by the Spontoonies, and the reaction of the Sire to that) was not going to affect Rosie and the Inspector’s upcoming nuptials. So rather than sit and mope in our rooms, I decided that I was going to be out and about with my wife and our son, and thoroughly enjoy the lovely climate of the islands.

And despite the single G&T I had imbibed the previous night, I was steadfastly maintaining myself not only in sobriety, but in failing to bring myself to the notice of the Constabulary, the Riot Squad, or the Fire Department.

Which reminded me that I should drop by the Grand Hotel’s casino and see how the odds were running.

Willow, young Tommy, and I were walking through the park when this thought occurred to me. “I say, Willow?”

“Yes, Reggie?”

I suddenly whirled, looking back the way we came in time to see about six furs instantly dive into the bushes. From the scattered noises, I gathered that one rather portly representative of the islands’ sporting agents had landed hard on two more, while a third had apparently pronked straight into a thornbush.

I spun back to face Willow, who was trying very hard not to laugh. “I was thinking that I’d drop by the Casino, and see how the odds have improved or not.”

My darling mate thought this over as we kept walking. Tommy was sitting up in his pram, looking around and blinking a bit in the sunlight. After a few minutes she said, “I don’t think so, Reggie.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She gave me a sidelong look. “It might be seen as you trying to influence the betting.”

“Hmm. Dash it all, you’re right again, my dear. Mustn’t give the punters any cause to think I’m trying to skew things in my favor. Very sensible of you, Willow. How come you’re not Prime Minister yet? You’d give Tom a run for his money.” For those who don’t know, Tom’s the Prime Minister, known more usually as Sir Oswald Mosley, Baronet. Very energetic fellow, even for a beagle; he has a lot of plans for Britain.

Willow swiveled her ears at me. “Reggie, I’m not interested in throwing myself into a pit full of snakes like that,” and there was more than a bit of Grace leaking through. She recovered and added, “I’m happy to stay at home and look after you and Tommy.”

“Fair enough,” and I suddenly turned around again.

Again, there was a sudden scramble, with one fellow trying to camouflage himself with some tree branches. Unfortunately, this attracted the attention of a group of those white squirrels one sees scampering about. About a dozen went after the hapless fellow, who squealed rather unlike a tree and started running.

Willow giggled. “I hope he’ll be all right. Those squirrels might have been looking for nuts.”


***


Allan:

“Hello, old friend,” I said as I sat down at his reserved table at Luchow’s. I had called the Constabulary and, since Vee expected me to, asked if Franklin felt up to a little ‘shop talk.’ He suggested that we meet for lunch, and I accepted. The food’s very good at Luchow’s.

Franklin had a salad, while I had salmon cakes. He seemed to enjoy his meal, while – well, as a mink, I’m somewhat partial to fish, and the two salmon cakes, with a small amount of lemon cream sauce on the side, was absolute ambrosia. We both had ice water to drink.

Clear heads, steady paws, you know. Besides, he still had to go back to work after lunch.

I’ve been told that it’s a Chinese custom to not talk business until after the meal’s finished. I feel that this is a very wholesome idea, so we refrained from talking about anything other than my family and his upcoming marriage. I didn’t mention Grace, as there might be prying ears about and Franklin’s agreed that she needs to keep her alias near at paw.

I accepted a refill on my ice water, and held the glass out to Franklin. “To you and Rosie. Long life, and a happy one.”

Franklin raised his own glass, and we clinked them together. “Amen,” he said, and after we drank (yes, I know it’s not really done to toast with water, but I’m an American) my close friend gave me a look. “I suppose you want to resume our conversation from a few nights ago.”

“Yes. How are your neighbors across the water?”

“Poetic way of putting it. Had the most . . . interesting things happen back in April,” and Franklin acquainted me with a very interesting story about the events that led to the death of one of the ruling clique on Krupmark Island, as well as his grand-nephew. When he finished, all I could do was sit there and blink.

I mean, I’ve heard about Songmark. Minkerton’s and the FBI get occasional reports about who’s currently attending.

“And you say that Ni Hei’s daughter planned all this?”

Franklin nodded. “And she’s setting up a business here, on South Island. If she applies the same skills she demonstrated over Easter to a legitimate business pursuit, she could go quite far. At any rate, after that happened, things have been remarkably quiet, apart from the sudden appearance of a hydrofoil.”

“A hydrofoil?”

“Hmm, yes. Sergeant Brush devised a solution to that,” and Franklin smiled. “It seems that a hydrofoil can’t use its extreme turn of speed if its foils run over a log dropped in its path.”

We both had a good chuckle over that, and after I paid the check for myself Franklin stood up to leave. “Has Rosie asked Victoria to be a bridesmaid yet?”

“No, why?”

“I shouldn’t wonder that she’s probably asked most of the female population.” He raised one eyebrow as I laughed.

I got the hint. “Sergeant Brush is your best man?”

“Yes.”

I grinned. “Well, you obviously need at least one more.”

Franklin smiled. “I’d be honored if you’d stand with me, Allan.”

“The honor would be mine, old friend.”


***


Willow:

Reggie and I were upstairs, relaxing after dinner.

My husband was slouching in an armchair, a glass of lemonade and seltzer by his side as he worked his way through the Spontoon Mirror’s crossword puzzle. I was seated across the room, leafing through a copy of Farrier’s Weekly. In the interest of marital solidarity, I was drinking lemonade and seltzer as well. With the ice in it, it was a very refreshing and non-alcoholic beverage.

Two sets of ears perked at the sound of a commotion.

From Tommy’s room?!

”Mi a fasz?! Menj az ördögbe, te gazember!“

Followed by a hoarse scream and a clanging sound.

My purse is always near at paw; I had my Starr 9mm out and ready by the time I was two steps out of my chair, with Reggie hot on my heels. We could hear Tommy crying as my husband and I hit the door with hardly a break in our strides.

Allan would have been proud of me for recalling my weapons training; I had the Starr up but not aimed and my index finger well away from the trigger as I surveyed the room for targets. Someone or something had caused my son to cry.

And that someone or something was going to pay.

Sophia had Tommy in her arms, gently stroking his ears and rocking him. Reggie went up to the mare and asked, “What the hell happened?”

She gave him a glare, met by a whistling snort from my husband. Ooh, the blood stirs. He repeated the question in a softer tone, and Sophia nodded toward the open window.

We both went to go look, and I lowered my pistol.

This time of night is the usual time that Spontoon’s Sanitation Department starts sweeping up the streets. You can see the trash cans on wheels moving about as the workers remove the bottles and wrappers left behind by the remaining tourists.

Much as I’d like to criticize Sophia for not letting me shoot anyone, the sight of a pair of canine legs sticking out of a trash can, feet waving about feebly, made me giggle. Reggie joined me at the window, saw where the possible burglar had landed, and walked back to Sophia.

“Miss Lovassag,” my darling buck said.

“Mister Buckhorn,” the iron-gray mare said.

“Much as I appreciate your service, and protecting my son,” Reggie said with a straight face, “I must remind you that this isn’t Prague.”

A bare ghost of a smile tugged at our normally stony-faced maid. “Indeed, it is not, Mister Buckhorn,” she said. “There were no dungheaps to be seen.”

Reggie smiled. “Good throw,” he said.

He went back into the drawing room while I helped Sophia quiet Tommy down and put him back to bed. I could hear him chuckling as he explained things to Lodge.

While I kissed my son on the forehead and promised myself that Sophia would get a raise as soon as we returned to Britain.




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