The Wet Nose of Danger: A Rex Koko, Private Clown Mystery #3

Chapter 1 ~ A Dog’s Life

Chapter 2 ~ Sniffing Up a Friend

Chapter 3 ~ Pampered Pooches

Chapter 4 ~ Where, Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?

Chapter 5 ~ Junkyard Dog

Chapter 6 ~ Snips and Snails and Puppy Dog Tails

Chapter 7 ~ Marking Your Territory

Chapter 8 ~ Sit Up and Beg

Chapter 9 ~ Pick of the Litter

Chapter 10 ~ A Fetching Little Number

Chapter 11 ~ Putting on the Dog

Chapter 12 ~ Shake Hands

Chapter 13 ~ Hellhound on My Trail

Chapter 14 ~ Police Dogs

Chapter 15 ~ Give a Dog a Bone

Chapter 16 ~ Culture Hounds

Chapter 17 ~ In the Dog House

Chapter 18 ~ A Little Chow

Chapter 19 ~ Hot on the Scent

Chapter 20 ~ Sea Dogs

Chapter 21 ~ Tail Between My Legs

Chapter 22 ~ A Stray Comes Home

Chapter 23 ~ Obedience Lessons

Chapter 24 ~ Off the Leash

Chapter 25 ~ A Salty Dog

Chapter 26 ~ A Few Faux Paws

Chapter 27 ~ The Dogs of War

Chapter 28 ~ Silent Barking

Chapter 29 ~ In the Alpha’s Den

Chapter 30 ~ Dog in the Manger

Chapter 31 ~ Mongrel Time

Chapter 32 ~ His Master’s Voice

Chapter 33 ~ One for the Underdog

Parlari

About the Author

A Politically Correct Bedtime Story

CHAPTER 1

A Dog’s Life

It was a hot afternoon in Top Town when I launched my latest larry. I was lying on the couch in my trailer, which I’d recently won in a bet with Hahvee the Spectacular, an Indian rubber man of some renown. He bet me I couldn’t fold myself up inside a valise like he could. Try as I might, the trick stumped me. Once he showed me how he did it, the rest was easy: I just locked the valise, carried him and it to the bus station, and bought Hahvee a freight ticket to San Diego. He said he’d always wanted to get closer to home, and since his name was really Javier and he was born in Guadalajara, I was doing him a favor. I trust someone will claim him at the depot.

His trailer looked a lot bigger from the outside, I tell ya. That’s one problem with rubber men. Instead of changing a lousy layout, they can just bend around it. Cramped as they were, these were the first permanent digs I’d had in quite a while, though they smelled a little like a tire store.

It felt good to be able to sleep indoors, but it felt better to not be sponging off my pals. Now if I could start growing some real alfalfa around here, I could ascend the ladder from destitute to merely disreputable.

I’m sure some kinkers didn’t like how I dealt with Hahvee, but I wasn’t going to get bent out of shape about it. A big chunk of Top Town would slander my name no matter what I did. Bring back a lost kitten, and they’d yell at me for not finding milk to feed it. That’s how it is when your name gains a little notoriety among show folk.

The door to the trailer was propped open a bit to let a little breeze through. I was busy dozing when a sound outside got my attention. A high, regular pok-pok on the planks outside. A pair of high heels, I guessed, and they were coming closer. Pok-pok-pok-pok could’ve meant anything from a giraffe to a trained pig, and I wasn’t expecting visitors.

A hand grasped the doorknob and pulled the door quickly. Into the frame stepped a svelte young jill in an expensive lavender suit and a wide-brimmed hat to match. She had a confident, no-nonsense air and would’ve told me exactly what she wanted, if the water bucket balanced over the door hadn’t tipped and drenched her. She let out a shriek I found endearing.

Sorry about the dousing, doll, I said from my couch. Security. You can’t hide a piece under a wet dress.

And under that wet dress, she was some piece.

From beneath the drooping canopy that had been her chapeau, she shot me a look you could carve a turkey with. In measured tones, she said, I hope you don’t think this is funny.

"Lady, I been around the block so many times, meter maids mark my shoes with chalk. I can’t even tell you what’s funny anymore. All I can say is, well, I know what I like. Heh heh, heeheeheehehe, hoo hoo HOO HOO . . ." I fell off the couch and crashed in what I hoped was a professional manner.

I don’t know if I wish to pursue this any further.

You won’t go, I mumbled as I got up.

Oh? she said down her upturned nose (to be fair, it was the only way she could see under her hat’s dripping brim). What makes you so certain?

Because if you’d wanted to hire a regular dick, you’d have done it already. Judging by appearances, you can afford it. Which means you need someone of my talents, peculiar though they may be.

She paused, a little nervous about being sized up quickly. You’re Rex Koko?

So say the labels in my underwear. Come in out of the sunshine.

She daintily kicked my alarm bucket out of her way and squeezed into the trailer. After inspecting a wooden stool a few times, she was satisfied it was safe and sat down. This kid was good. I made a mental note to saw through a leg or two when our parlari was over.

My name is Lydia Gagtart, she said, peeling off her floppy hat. I could now see her cool green eyes, perfect skin, and wavy red hair. She looked all of 24 years old, and as near as I could tell, she had every reason to be confident. At the snap of her fingers, most men would roll over for a quick belly rub. And yes, I have sought you out. You were recommended by someone. Because of your . . . unique abilities.

A referral, eh? There’s a first time for everything. Who was it?

I’m here on behalf of my employer, Senator Claude Lodestone.

Claude Lodestone? My ears perked up as if they’d heard coins being dropped. With any luck, they’d soon hear more than just coins. That’s pretty uptown for the likes of us down here.

I’m actually the aide and secretary for Mrs. Lodestone and her mother, Mrs. Atlas Van Lyons.

No foolin’.

You’ve heard of Mrs. Van Lyons?

Sole heir to the Van Lyons fortune? The only money older than hers is sitting underwater in a scuttled Roman barge. What would she want with the likes of me?

She wants you to find her Ying-Lang.

Her what?

Her furry little Ying-Lang.

My ears reddened. Listen, if your boss is looking for that kind of action, she can find plenty of other gigolos in Top Town.

No, no, you don’t understand . . .

Some clowns have a little self-respect, I fumed, hard as you might find that to believe.

Miss Gagtart tried to explain, Her Ying-Lang is a little Lhasa Apso.

At her age, I suppose it would be. The answer is still no. Women have these weird ideas about joeys, but they ain’t true.

We’re talking about a dog, you idiot.

Well, then, I’m definitely not interested, I said. Fine way to talk about your boss, besides.

She threw her hat to the floor in frustration, where it landed with a slap. "She’s not the dog! Her dog is the dog!"

Huh. And you came all the way to Top Town to tell me that. I lit a gasper and stood up. You look like you could use a drink, Miss Gagtart.

She closed her eyes and sighed. I didn’t when I came in here.

I sidled my way over to the liquor, broom, coat, storage and prop closet. I can offer you bourbon, turpentine or bourbon.

Yes, bourbon’s fine.

I watched her carefully. Seltzer?

She turned and gave a look that warned me not to press my luck. I took my finger off the bottle’s trigger. I was starting to like this skirt. I handed her a glass of Kentucky headkick. She inspected the glass to see if it had been washed this year. I poured one for myself and walked back to the couch. Now, gimme the route card.

Mrs. Van Lyon’s prize show dog, little Ying-Lang, is missing. She fears the worst, because the same thing has happened to some of her friends, multiple times. Their dogs disappear and are never heard from again. She took a small sip from the glass and to my surprise didn’t choke. Looked like I’d poured from the right bottle this time.

A dognapping? You want me to work a dognapping? What do I look like?

You look like a bargain basement jack-in-the-box, she said, losing patience, with a red nose, weak chin, tiny fedora and a bulging waistline. You also look like someone who would realize that Mrs. Van Lyons is willing to pay just about anything for the return of her champion dog.

Appearances can be deceiving, I defended myself. Except in this case. Let’s talk about the leafy green stuff.

Money, of course, is no object.

I agree. Conceptually, money is merely the consensual method of material exchange that Mankind has invented to trade the surplus means at his disposal for commodities beyond the basics of food, clothing and shelter. My creditors, however, are strict materialists, and don’t trust anything they can’t clutch in their sweaty little mitts. Money might not be an object, therefore, but mazoomah certainly is.

Senator Lodestone is prepared to offer you $30 a day, plus expenses, until you find Ying-Lang, she said. And when you bring him home, safe and sound, you will receive a substantial reward.

You’re saying all the right things, Miss Gagtart. But it’s obvious you’re uncomfortable being here.

Perhaps because I’m soaked from head to toe, she said, as she knocked back the rest of her drink. She handed me the glass back. From her tone of voice, I expected to see frost crystals forming on her glass.

You’ve never been down to Top Town before, have you?

No, she admitted, no, I haven’t

Give it time. It ain’t such a bad place, once you stop trying to make sense of it.

I’ll have to take your word for that. She picked her hat off the floor, stood up to leave, and tried to straighten the lines of her sopping frock without much luck. Mrs. Van Lyons will be able to meet with you personally on Wednesday at three to discuss the situation further. Please be prompt. She gave me an address up in Skelton Heights.

Don’t worry, I think my chauffeur will be able to find it.

We’ll see you on Wednesday then. Good day.

And, with a drip and a squeak, she was gone.

CHAPTER 2

Sniffing Up a Friend

After a brief nap, I left the trailer and took a walk up Shiner Street from Hahvee’s trailer. The offer from the lovely Lydia Gagtart weighed on my mind. She brought images of a new world, one of money and privilege and clean donnikers. It was a little overwhelming, I gotta say. You’ve probably heard stories about kings and queens who dress up as commoners and mingle among the filthy masses, gaining wisdom from the plain-spoken, wise-beyond-their-station peasants. If those stories were true, they have benefitted from hundreds of years of public relations rewrites around them. Generations of publicity flacks can make anyone sound good.

But down among the kinkers of Top Town there’s a solid suspicion of anyone of high station coming down from the heavenly heights to visit us. There’s always a price to pay, whether it’s obvious or not. We like a paycheck, all right, but it doesn’t have to be honest and it shouldn’t tie up all our time. Grifts and swindles don’t run themselves, pally.

And neither do performing and practicing. On my walk, I passed by kinkers going through their motions in the afternoon, doing the hard work that makes their acts possible. A couple of riders at the Hippodrome were putting their ponies through their exercises, quietly and with concentration. There was no applause or fanfare, just the fuh-fuh-foop of the hooves and the jingles of the harnesses. A block further, six acrobats were working on an inverted pyramid. The ponger at the bottom looked to be about my age, though trimmer and stronger (though that’s no achievement). Every time I see this group work out, he’s shaking and sweating at the bottom. Hang in there, bucko. The cavalry’s coming.

I was on my way up to Bull Row with a bundle of wildflowers I’d picked from a vacant lot. I think they were bluebonnets, but they may have been milkweed. Anyway, I was bringing them up to Daisy, hoping that a little snack would patch up the tiff we’d been having lately. Elephants never forget, so they say. They also never quit reminding you of what you’ve done wrong. Sarcastically.

Anyway, I’m about halfway there when I get buttonholed on the street by one Stick Hibbard, the proprietor of the Bizarre-A-Torium, one of the ten-in-ones in town. Skinny and tough, he wore a spotless white shirt and blue slacks held up by black suspenders, with a straw fedora on his coconut. I’d never had any dealings with this gink, but I also hadn’t heard anything bad about him, either. I didn’t even know he knew me, but he had a spieler’s gift of seeming like a long-lost friend and trusted confidante.

Hey, Rex Koko, just the man I want to see.

Do tell.

How’s the detective biz working out?

It’s all right, I said. A little like the freak show racket, but without the glamour.

He offered me a cigarette and we both lit up. After a little more small talk, he lowered his voice and said, Listen, friend, I got a proposition for you.

Now that’s a line that packs more warning than a switchman’s lantern in the railyard, but all yours truly said was, Yeah?

I’m having trouble with my ten-in-one, he confided. A couple of my acts have run out on me. It’s become impossible to really put up ten in a performance. The show just isn’t the same show without ‘em.

Yeah? Who are you talking about?

One is Inky the Illustrated Man, the other is Mario the Man-Lion.

I snickered. Those are the poles that hold up your whole operation? A human chalkboard and a guy who doesn’t shave his back?

Don’t demonstrate your ignorance, friend. Mario is not merely hairy. He is covered head to foot with golden luxuriant hair, a mane that any king of the beasts would envy.

Stop with the spiel, Hibbard. I’m not a rube with a quarter burning in his pocket.

He squinted his eyes at me just a little. These two are big entertainers, friend. Evergreen attractions. The kind the rubes come out to see. Without them, just about all I got is a double-jointed harmonica player and a giant who won’t stand up because he says his feet hurt.

Fair enough. When did they cut out on you?

Six months ago.

Six months? By now, they could be in Pago-Pago, wherever that is.

Six months since they left, but I had kept in touch. Never burn bridges, maybe I could lure ‘em back to the show. Then, about a month ago, I stopped hearing from them, and haven’t been able to find them since. I want you to see what you can turn up.

What do they look like? I asked.

Whaddya mean, what do they look like? One is covered from head to heel in tattoos, and the other has to comb his face before he brushes his teeth in the morning. Sights impossible to forget.

Then I’d think you’d be able to find them without my help.

Are you turning down a job? Listen, Koko, you’ve got advance as a gee who can get things done. I want this done. I want to find these two.

It looked like pretty low-hanging fruit, but I didn’t want anything getting in the way of my current gig. The little show dogs were so helpless, and there was so much lettuce to harvest. Besides, though it wasn’t Hibbard’s fault, I had a case a year ago that plunked me right in the middle of the sideshow, specifically Colonel Mars’ Congress of Freaks, and nothing good came out of it.

Sorry, Stick, but you’re gonna have to find another bigshoe. My bill is full right now. Got some new clients up in Spaulding who have all my attention.

Spaulding? he grimaced, throwing his cigarette down. You’re too good for show folk now? You moving up to the big city to dance for the elmers?

Don’t get sore, Hibbard. Last I looked, I’m only one joey.

He showed me the back of his hand. Save your excuses, clown. You wanna work for some stiffs in Spaulding, go ahead. But to them, you’ll always be a low-life. And to us, well, I don’t have to spell it out.

What’s that supposed to mean? I asked, fists clenching.

You heard what I said, and you know what I mean.

If Hibbard spit in my face, he couldn’t have been more asking for a clem. But I couldn’t show it bothered me. Maybe my rep would never improve, but it wouldn’t be my fault. Look, Hibbard, I never did anything to you.

Bah, he said, walking away, save it for your hoity-toity pals.

He stomped away, but I was the one who was fuming. No matter what I do, no matter who I help, these kinkers manage to throw my past in my face. It was beginning to feel like there was no way to stop it. The Legend of Rex Koko kept writing itself, just by me staying above sod. I might as well cash in on it so I could retire to the north side of Griebling Street.

I looked down at the flowers in my hand and saw that I’d crushed them. I went back to the ditch and picked more of whatever was growing there, trying to forget what Stick had implied. I knew poison ivy didn’t flower, but that was about it.

When I got up to Bull Row, Daisy was already out for the evening, and nobody would tell me with who. Her neighbor Matilda smiled at me, then grabbed the bouquet from my hands and ate it all before I could blink. Those pachyderms stick together, you gotta give them that. And what you don’t give ‘em, they’ll take anyway.

I slunk back to my trailer and spent the night reading Lives of the Noble Greeks and Romans. Daisy had her own life to lead, I kept telling myself and Plutarch, but I didn’t really listen, and he’d been dead a while.

CHAPTER 3

Pampered Pooches

On Wednesday I made my plans to head to Skelton Heights. Three p.m. was a little early for me, but I figured I could make the sacrifice for Mrs. Van Lyons and her friends – Abe, Andy, Ulysses S., and all the other dead presidents. To make a good first impression, I showered with real water that morning and had my best jacket dry cleaned (since it was also my only jacket, I spent Tuesday in starched cuffs and a dickey). I was sparing with the aftershave and only used half a cup, not enough for my cigarette to ignite. Torching myself like a Bananas Foster has scared off more than one client, believe me.

To make it all the way to Skelton Heights, I took a trolley car, two buses and finally a delivery truck, hanging on the back out of sight of the driver. Although Skelton Heights was technically a part of Spaulding, it might as well have been Siberia as far as us kinkers were concerned, and it was no accident. The families up here had long ago made their piles, back when the country was ripe for the picking. Now their main concern was keeping the rabble from storming the gates with torches. If every man is a king in his own home, everybody around here was Louis XVI.

It was one thing to have Lodestone’s address, but finding it was another. It was a five minute walk from driveway to driveway among these places, and a lot didn’t bother with little things like house numbers. Lodestone’s place was an exception. Tall stone towers flanked either side of the driveway, holding two iron gates firmly in place. I would’ve let myself in, but there was no way this gate could be moved by anything short of a thunderbolt from Zeus (who, for all I knew, lived across the street). I looked around, wondering how to let someone know I was here. Feeling foolish, I reached out and knocked on the cold, black bars of the gate.

Within seconds, a low rumble began, sounding like a distant earthquake. I cocked an ear, my arm still poised in midair. Soon, a pack of barking, slobbering hellhounds appeared and came charging up to the gate, taking great offense that I had touched any part of the property. Their faces flashed of ivory, steam and spittle, as they piled on top of each other, trying to take a hefty bite out of yours truly. With four-legged meat grinders like these running around, I’d guess that Mrs. Van Lyons’ little Ying-Lang somehow lounged a little too far over the windowsill and became a diet supplement. These monsters could have swallowed a lapdog whole without noticing it or choking on the bow.

I stepped out of range of the claws and teeth, feeling like one fortunate hambone. Though I