My valet Clive and I were in our Fort Bragg offices playing backgammon and discussing economic theory when the knock came on the door. I was no match for him on either front, being down eight games and almost completely unfamiliar with the esoteric financial concepts on which he was holding forth. Clive contended that a Keynsian response to marginalist theories about the valuation problem relating capital to interest was at variance with post 9/11 financial markets, and I said that I thought it was better to have money than not. What? I like my women willing, my ice crushed, and my economics simple. Clive, for you newcomers to the Stony Lonesome, is an orangutan and quite the most efficient, intelligent, reliable, and indispensable member of my staff. I literally do not know what I would do without him. His penetrating intellect, far-reaching abilities, and cool, calm demeanor have plucked me from many a muddle. Be it choosing a suit for an evening with the glitterati or getting me down out of a tree, Clive's utility is absolute and his skills unparalleled. His curriculum vitae includes an education at Oxford, service in the Royal Marines, and an O.B.E. for service to the crown in rebuilding the British economy.
He got up to answer the door as I tidied up my desk for the visitor and placed a few of my markers in more advantageous positions. "Telegram," said the Western Union boy at the door.
Odd. I wasn't aware that the breed still flourished, but there he was in the traditional cap and bearing the standard buff envelope. Clive tipped him a fin and shut the door. "Read it, will you, Clive?" I said. "Certainly, sir. It appears young Master Will has been kidnapped."
Will Hawk is my batman and the third leg of the Stony Lonesome stool. Although generally classified among the "lug" or "oaf' school of humanity, Will is brave, loyal, and utterly devoted to our organization and its mission, whatever that may be. He has taken more than a few lumps in his service to me over the years, and I knew that I must spare no expense or effort in bringing him home.
"Kidnapped! What do they want?"
"They don't specify, only stating that he is in their possession and we will be contacted further."
"You know, Clive," I said ruminatively, "it's a hell of a thing when a fellow's batman can just be plucked off the street like a common vassal. I remember a time when the proprieties were observed and a man's staff was respected, and now here they are snatching batmen as if it were a matter of custom. Do you know what this represents the breakdown of, Clive? I'll tell you: society. See what that pigeon wants, will you?" The bird in question was outside the window and pecking urgently at the glass. Clive lifted the sash and the pigeon swaggered confidently in, assaying a few interrogatory coos.
"Clive, either that pigeon is recovering from a skiing accident or he's got a message for us," I said, referring to a cylindrical prominence on one of his legs. "Attend to that, please."
It was indeed a message. "It's from the kidnappers. They're demanding the Heart of Noyo in exchange for Will's safe return."
I was shocked into silence and stood for moment, agog, considering the enormity of the request. The Heart of Noyo? Impossible! I was its steward, not its owner, and a bond of trust existed between myself and the people of Fort Bragg based entirely on their faith that I would keep it safe and present. I could no more surrender it than tear my own beating heart out of my chest and give it away. Besides, an object of such power and mystery in the wrong hands could wreak havoc on the very fabric of space-time. No, there was no way these thugs were getting the Heart — but I wasn't about to turn my back on an employee and friend, either. Will must be saved, and it was incumbent on Clive and myself to do the saving. There was no warning from the kidnappers about not calling the police, but they needn't have bothered. The FBPD, while excellent at rousting the homeless and supporting the local baked-goods economy, would be useless in a case of such danger and complexity. "Clive, you do realize this is impossible," I said.
"Of course it's bloody impossible. Hand over the Heart? Not bloody likely. Of all the bloody cheek! I'll have their heads by sundown, sir. You may make book on that."
Three "bloodys"? Clive was as angry as I'd ever seen him. His and Will's relationship was occasionally fractious and marked by a sneering contempt on Clive's part, but I believe deep down he considered the boy a son, and I had no doubt he'd do all in his not inconsiderable power to retrieve him. "It's up to us, Clive old sock," I said. "With your brains and physical prowess, and my car and knowledge of the area, these fiends don't stand a chance."
"I daresay not, sir. But regarding your navigational abilities, you did get lost on the way here this morning, and you do live on the same street as the office."
"Dammit, Clive, that's not fair. I was drunk at the time."
"Yes, sir, but begging your pardon, sir, you still are. Drunk, that is."
"What are you, the drunk police? That's neither here nor there. What's our first move here?"
Before he could answer we were distracted by the distinctive sharp clicking of approaching high heels in the hallway. A curvilinear silhouette appeared in the semi-opaque pebbled glass of the door and in she strode, bold as brass. A dame in turquoise satin with hair like molten lava tumbling down the slopes of a very sexy volcano, her shapely gams traveling a very scenic route from the floor to her bountiful hips. The remainder was stacked like the blocks of a ziggurat and topped with a phiz of the type that launches ships by the bucketful. Her smoky eyes latched onto mine and her pillowy, crimson lips parted.
"Good morning, fellas," she said breathily. "Is this the law offices of Bricker and Bricker?"
"Nope, like it says on the door, this is Stony Lonesome Inc. Law office is down the hall," I said.
"Alright then, sorry to bother you boys," she said, and after a wink that pierced my heart like Eros's dart, she spun on a heel and left, giving us a view that looked for all the world like two armadillos wrestling in a satin pillowcase. I whistled ruefully as the door closed. "Clive, I can't help but feel that she might have added an interesting dimension to this story," I said.
"Indeed, sir. A dame has a way of coalescing and clarifying things. But, you can't have everything. Now, as to your original question about our initial action, we've been instructed to proceed to the harbor to await further instructions."
I reacted with a slight shiver. "The harbor? Bit of a dodgy area, that. Full of fishermen. I don't trust fishermen, and do you know why, Clive?"
"Because they lie?"
"Because they lie," I confirmed. "And furthermore, they don't tell the truth. A fish is just as big as he is, and no bigger. A man who'd append pounds and inches to his dimensions for personal glory is not a fellow I'd care to drink with, and you may quote me on that. What was it Shakespeare said about fishermen?"
"That they appear as ants upon the beach? That's from Lear."
"Hm, doesn't really capture their deceitful nature. Usually the Bard is more cutting than that. Well, you can't hit a home run every time. Where in that nest of vipers are we supposed to go?"
"According to this, there's a derelict tuna boat called Duchess moored at slip F-18," Clive said. "We're to board her and wait on the afterdeck — for what or whom, I don't know, but they expect us to have the Heart in hand."
"Bosh, I'll just wrap up this souvenir paperweight from Niagara Falls, it'll serve. Surrender the Heart! As if." I chuckled at their nerve. "Let's be off."
It was a typical Fort Bragg summer day, which is to say chill, overcast, and drizzly. No sooner had I made my way out the door and onto the sidewalk when I was hit directly in the face with a wet fish which, after depositing an unacceptable amount of slime and scales on my map, flopped twice on the sidewalk and expired. When I recovered from the shock I said, "Clive, what do you make of this?"
"Well, the trajectory was more or less horizontal, so I'm going to rule out the biblical," he said. "I'm guessing the flinger flung from beyond yon flivver," gesturing to a car across the street, "and then fled. The fish appears to be a herring." He squatted down for a closer look. "A red herring, which is not native to these waters. Abounds in the Persian Gulf and South China Sea."
"Clive, I believe this fish may be a clue," I said excitedly. "Did it come with any attachments?"
"It's not a bloody e-mail, sir. I suppose you could term it a sea-mail, but no, just the normal complement of fins."
"Possibly Al-Qaeda," I said. "Who else would assault me with a Middle Eastern fish?"
"You have hit upon the very question, sir, but I haven't an answer. The day may yet yield more information. Leave us continue harborward."
We jumped into the Hispano-Suiza and drove to the harbor, ignoring all traffic laws, signals, and acceptable standards of behavior. I used both lanes and the occasional sidewalk indiscriminately, scattering pedestrians and street vendors like Mr. Magoo out for a Sunday drive. I am quite fiercely Libertarian in my approach to driving and contend that the more creative and unfettered my path from point A to B is, the more joy I will have given to the onlookers lucky enough to witness my peregrinations, at least those I don't run over.
I located the boat in question quickly, a huge, rusted hulk covered in barnacles and gull waste. A gangplank was out and we climbed aboard, touring the entire upper deck before parking ourselves on the afterdeck to await the kidnappers. "Clive, if the opportunity arises for you to employ that famous simian strength and agility to send those varlets down to Davy Jones' Locker, don't let me stand in your way. You do what you have to do."
Clive cracked his knuckles menacingly. "I'm way ahead of you, sir. Once we have the young hillbilly safely in hand, all bets are off."
"Wait, did you hear that? It sounded like laughter from below;" I said. Clive cocked an ear. "I do believe you're right, sir. Follow me." He scuttled across the deck and scampered down the companionway with the inborn agility of his species. I followed a tad more gingerly after wiping down the slimy rungs with my handkerchief.
At the bottom of the ladder was a long passage with an open hatch at the end of it, from which emanated sounds of talking and laughter. "Stay behind me, sir. Quietly now," Clive whispered. We crept down the passageway and when we reached the hatch, I heard a very familiar voice. I stepped inside to see Will among a group of our friends, drinking a beer and holding forth jovially, looking decidedly un-kidnapped.
"What the flippin' hell?" I said.
"Boss! Clive! Hey, gotcha! Haha! I just wanted you to come down here and see my new boat! Good joke, huh? I'm gonna turn it into a disco! This is gonna be the V.I.P. room! What do you think?"
"You stupid sonofabitch," I said.
"No, no, you're right, Master Will, great joke. You got us, alright. Come up on deck with me for half a mo, would you?" Clive said.
"Sure thing, buddy. Be right back, guys."
I cracked a beer and said hello to everyone. "Hey, Justin. Naomi, what's up? Skeezix, long time. Will going to give you all jobs on the disco boat? Excellent. So. You guys hear that thumping up above? What is that? Whoa, what was that Will-shaped thing cruising past this porthole on the way to the water? Reckon Will must've dropped something valuable to jump in with all his clothes on, huh? Whoa, there goes Clive too! I guess he's going to help him look for it. Good friends, man. That's what it's all about. Pass me another beer."
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