Kip always imagined himself ambling along the primrose path, but for most of life’s journey he just felt its thorns jabbing him in his ass. By tonight’s example, dashing through a barbed thicket was literally an irritating experience. The bramble patches were in full bloom, lending credence to the fact that it was impossible for Kip and Bruce to dodge the pricks coming at them from all directions on this evening.
The Lehigh River served as a reliable marker and kept them on track; Kip only needed to crouch in the underbrush and check the map once to determine their proximity to the drop zone.
“This route should take us right into Easton’s center square,” Kip said, studying the highlighted map. He looked more confident than normal. He hadn’t felt this sure about anything related to navigation sense meriting a Wilderness Survival Badge in Boy Scouts.
“You’re speaking Greek,” Bruce said, scratching his side with a hind leg. “Just tell me which way to go. I’m trusting your sense of direction, Magellan.”
Kip stood up and motioned to the city’s infrastructure. “We have to cross that bridge over there. We’re about a half-mile from the site.”
Bruce scanned the bridge’s frame just beyond the camouflage along the river’s bank. He then raised his snout into the air and inhaled deeply. “Hold on a sec. I smell a rat.”
“Is someone following us?” Kip’s poise suddenly plunged into anxiousness. Bruce zeroed in on a shuffling noise in the marshy weeds beside the water. A grungy animal scurried into the river and swam away.
“It’s just a muskrat,” Bruce growled. “Close enough. You ready to motor?”
Kip couldn’t afford to be unprepared now. He tucked the envelope and map under his arm and trudged forward. Bruce almost wanted to chase after the muskrat, but he managed to suppress his instinct for the greater cause. Their stealthy jaunt continued until the wooded environs eventually gave way to an urban sprawl. With nowhere else to hide from pending pursuers, their only course of action was to simply meander onto the pavement and remain as inconspicuous as possible. Of course, there weren’t too many folks dressed in pirate attire out walking a dog at one in the morning.
Crossing the bridge brought them closer to Easton’s square. A Civil War monument was stationed at the center of a bustling business district. Despite the late hour, many people were still out carousing between the trendy bars and restaurants. No one appeared particularly interested in Kip or the beagle, which seemed odd to Bruce.
“Something is afoul,” Bruce said. He sniffed at the air as if there was a fragrance in the breeze that Kip simply couldn’t detect.
“What are you smelling for now?” Kip said.
“Trouble. I don’t see any cops.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Maybe it’s too good. I’m not getting a clean whiff right now.”
“I always wondered about that,” Kip pondered. “Can a dog really smell trouble before humans sense it?”
“You ask more questions than Alex Trebek.”
“Well, we are in jeopardy, aren’t we?”
If beagles had a knack to grin flagrantly, Bruce would’ve done so. “You’re a pretty witty, dude, Kip. I wouldn’t recommend that you perform any stand-up on the circuit, but you’ve shown some true grit out here tonight so far.”
In order to prove that Bruce’s pop cultural puns were no more impressive than his own, Kip launched into a hyperbolic impersonation of John Wayne, “Well, I’m much obliged that you recognize True Grit, lil’ pilgrim. But I reckon you still didn’t answer me.”
“Figure it out for yourself, Cogburn. Now, where does the map tell us to go next?”
Kip unfolded the map and verified their position before saying, “Two blocks past the State Theatre. There should be a street on the right. That’s where Mark said we’d find the car, and Wint.”
After an abbreviated respite, they moved further along the city’s square (which was architecturally a circle). Finding Northhampton Street presented no problems because the theatre’s marquee stood out among the other weathered facades. The headliner for the theatre for this upcoming weekend was Tom Jones. By the time they walked beneath the sign, Bruce was singing a tune from the crooner’s catalogue.
“What’s new pussy cat? Woah, woah....”
Kip tried to ignore Bruce, but after two verses, he had to say something to shut the dog up. “Okay, I get it. You like Tom Jones. But can you keep your voice down? If we get stopped by anyone, how am I gonna explain that my beagle is singing Burt Bacharach songs?”
“What? You don’t like Tom Jones?”
“He was good…forty years ago. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Newsflash: he’s still good. When was the last time a stadium packed with writhing, wanton women threw their panties on stage for your perusal?”
“Writhing and wanton? Isn’t that a little bit of an exaggeration?”
“Sorry. Subtly isn’t my strong suit.”
“I agree, but I’ve never been on stage.”
“Well, you’re about to be upstaged, because Mr. Jones is still twirling more panties than a fashion model for Victoria Secrets. Sure, the underwear may be getting a tad granny-ish, but he keeps adding to his collection.”
“If you say so.”
Bruce continued to sing like Tom Jones. All he needed was an open shirt and a gold cross. “Pussy cat, pussy cat, I love you, yes, I do….”
Kip viewed this exchange as nothing other than small talk; perhaps Bruce was deliberately diverting his attention from the predicament in order to subdue his tension. The beagle might’ve trained for such tactics while being programmed by the governmental MUTTS. But they had more urgent matters to mull over at the moment.
“What do you know about this guy named Wint?” Kip asked.
“He’s not so unusual,” Bruce said, “as long as you’re not freaked out by the color green. Personally, it’s not a problem for us dogs.”
“Mark told me I’m supposed to give the disc in this envelope to him.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Then what?”
“Then we take the getaway car and make like its namesake. Weren’t you paying attention earlier?”
“I just don’t know what to believe at this point, Bruce.”
“Look, Kip. I take orders just like you do. All I can tell you about Wint is that he knows a lot of crap that most people don’t give a bleep about.”
“Like what?”
“Why are you putting me on the spot? Do I look like a Dalmatian to you?” Bruce joked. “I don’t know—random stuff, like who invented the sandwich and the name of the guy who botched Kenny Rogers’s plastic surgery.”
“Weren’t they the same person?” Kip quipped. Bruce wagged his tail and would’ve even extended Kip a thumbs-up sign if he had thumbs. “Seriously, I just don’t want to make any mistakes. I’ll take your word for it that this Wint guy is pretty smart.”
“Trust me. He’s so smart that he can tell you why quantum physics is easier to understand than Quantum of Solace.”
“You had me at quantum.”
“Just relax. So far we’re as golden as retrievers.”
The drop zone was discreetly nestled between two tenement buildings on a street regularly reserved for truck deliveries. A few cars and unhitched trailers were parked curbside, but there weren’t any visible people snooping around. Other than a feral cat rummaging through an overstuffed trash container, the vicinity was quiet and rather ordinary. It didn’t occur to Kip until this moment, but he had forgotten to ask Mark what make and model vehicle to search for. Of course, any such guesswork became unnecessary after Bruce espied a very angular figure lingering in shadow beside a partially rusted 1968 VW Beetle.
“That’s gotta be him,” Bruce said, beckoning toward the lone man. “I’d recognize his green gabardine get-up anywhere.” True enough, few men would’ve sported a pea-colored trench coat. Wint looked like a blade of grass jutting from the concrete. Before his defection from the M
UTTS, he was a crackerjack tech guy. His job consisted of translating and recording the data collected from the Class IV microchips. Somewhere along the way, Wint’s conscience revved into overdrive and he wanted to pull out. But just as Mark callously discovered, the only way to motor away from the MUTTS was to take a permanent vacation from life.
Wint never made any apologies for his colorful threads. He was especially fond of his mint green derby that he nudged down over a crease in his forehead to cast a blindfold-sized shadow across his eyes. A comparison between him and The Green Hornet couldn’t be overlooked, and some wondered if that masked vigilante was the inspiration behind his motif. Bruce, of course, had already made up his mind on this matter.
“When it comes to Wint’s wardrobe, the color green really is forever,” he jested to Kip.
“Sort of like diamonds,” Kip added.
“Come on, let’s get this over with.” They shifted closer to the beige hatchback. Bruce didn’t look too keen on the choice of vehicle either. “I never liked Beetles,” he complained. “That was the Fuhrer’s brainchild.” At this point, Kip didn’t care if their mode of transportation once belonged to Attila the Hun. The little car looked like a limousine from his perspective.
Kip wasn’t sure how to broach the topic with Wint. The man’s temperament was cooler than an ice sickle. Seeing the manila envelope in Kip’s hands proved sufficient for the man in green.
“Mark didn’t mention to me that he was sending Long John Silver,” Wint grunted. The man’s upper lip had a curl in its edge that rivaled Elvis’s hallmark sneer, and he sounded like Inspector Harry Callahan. “Did you bring the disc?”
“Of course, Wint,” Bruce answered for Kip.
“I prefer Winter Greene.”
“But I’m partial to spearmint,” Bruce said. “Anyway, meeting you is like gargling with mouthwash. You’re always such a breath of fresh air.”
“Yeah.” Apparently, Wint didn’t major in puns at tech school. He held out one of his gloved hands and beckoned for what he needed. Kip retrieved the DVD from the dossier and exchanged it for the Beetle’s ignition key.
“You couldn’t get us anything sportier than this heap of scrap iron?” Bruce said, peering at the distressed Volkswagen.
“What were you expecting, a stealth glider? It’s the best I could do on such short notice.”
Bruce stood up on his hind legs and inspected the car’s interior. He singled out one peculiar feature. “Hey, this car doesn’t have a passenger seat.”
“That’s right,” Wint explained. “This vehicle once belonged to a member of Ted Bundy’s fan club. He wanted a replica.”
“No bleep? Ted Bundy actually had a fan club?”
“I don’t get it,” Kip interjected. “Are you talking about Ted Bundy, the serial killer? He drove a Beetle?” Wint nodded and stuffed the disc in a pocket on the inside of his trench coat. “I just never pictured a guy like that driving a car like this.”
“What’d expect? Maniacal psychopaths don’t usually drive hearses when hunting for their victims,” Wint commented. “That’s what makes them hard to catch.”
“Why did he take the passenger seat out?”
Bruce and Wint groaned simultaneously. Kip probably could’ve figured out why Bundy’s passengers didn’t complain about comfort, but maybe the thought was just too grim to contemplate.
“Let’s just say he wanted plenty of leg room,” Bruce said.
“Yeah,” Wint added, “but not for his own legs.”
Kip decided to check out the rest of the car for himself. After circling the vehicle once, he noticed the Beetle’s rear vanity plate. It read: CURZON 12. He knew it signified something clandestine, but he decided not to investigate.
“The guy who owned this car must’ve been to a real freak of nature,” Kip said. “I don’t know if I feel right driving it, but I guess I don’t got a choice, huh?”
Wint refused to answer illogical questions; under the circumstances, Kip would have to deal with the transportation at hand. “Nobody said we were gonna have first class accommodations,” Bruce reminded him. Further prodding wasn’t necessary in order to lure Kip behind the steering wheel, but just in case, the beagle offered a more Disney-like analogy. “Just think of the car as if it was Herbie, with a little extra kick to it.”
“I’m never going to forget this night,” Kip sighed as he opened the passenger door and let Bruce hop inside. Wint paced around to the driver’s side door and motioned for Kip to roll down the window.
“I guess this is where we say goodbye,” Kip said. “Will we be crossing paths again at the next drop zone?”
“Not if everything goes as planned,” Wint said. “You’re on your own from this point. I’m sure Mark gave you all the details.”
“Not all of them,” Bruce piped in. “What’s CURZON 12 mean?”
“You noticed the car’s plate too?” Kip said to Bruce.
“It’s not amateur night. I notice everything.”
Wint grinned mischievously and leaned in closer to Kip. At this range, Kip noticed that even the man’s eyes were the color of martini olives. They appeared both shaken and stirred as he pondered his next thought.
“I wasn’t going to let you leave here without telling you,” Wint admitted.
“Is it important?” Kip asked.
Wint shrugged his shoulders. “Depends on what you think is important.”
“I think I’d like to know,” Kip said.
“Would you also like to know that Clint Eastwood is an anagram for ‘old west action’?
“No, I don’t want to know random things. I’m just curious about Curzon 12.”
“You really are greener than my coat,” Wint smirked. “But here’s a morsel of insight to whet to your appetite: Curzon is a name of a street in England. The number 12 is an address on that particular street. Is the picture getting any clearer yet?”
“It’s still foggier than a London morning on The Thames from where I’m sitting,” answered Kip.
“I told you he knows things most people don’t think about,” Bruce muttered.
Wint cast the bait like a master linesman. Now, with his prey hooked, he reeled him like Captain Quint on the bridge of the Orca. “You ever hear of Mama Cass?” he said in his Dirty Harry-like tone.
“Cass Elliot? The folk singer?” Kip asked.
“Yeah. Well, in July of 1974, she died at the age of 32 in an apartment building in London—12 Curzon Place.” Naturally, Kip appeared puzzled by this bit of casual trivia, but he couldn’t say that Bruce didn’t warn him.
“That’s it?” Kip asked. “No connection to Bundy?”
“None whatsoever. But I’m not finished,” Wint stated. “Five years later, in the exact same flat on Curzon, guess who also turned toes up at the age of 32?”
“Who?”
“Close, but guess?”
“John Denver?” Bruce interjected.
“No. He left us after a plane crash in 97.”
“I know who it was,” Kip said. “He was the drummer from The Who, right?”
“His name was Keith Moon,” Wint said. “You may not be as callow as you look, Kip.”
“Gee, thanks, Wint. Your perceptiveness overwhelms me.”
“I got one question,” Bruce interrupted. “Which one of them choked to death on a ham sandwich?”
“Neither,” Wint clarified. “It’s a myth that Mama Cass died while eating a sandwich in bed. You can blame that rumor on the investigating doctor. His name was Greenbugh.”
Kip and Bruce couldn’t help but make the connection between this doctor’s name and Wint’s choice of attire. Before this banter went any further, the obvious question had to be asked, so Kip served it up to Wint like a lead balloon. “Look, I like cultural trivia as much as the next guy, or at least as much as Bruce, but what does any of this information have to do with what we’re doing here tonight?”
Wint scrunched up his nose, as he often did when pensively brooding
over something that troubled him. “Let me ask you something?” he said to Kip. “Are you the kind of guy who skips foreplay and gets right to the main event?”
“What kind of question is that?” Kip sounded generally offended.
“Bruce,” Wint suggested, “you better tell this minuteman that the Revolutionary War ended over two hundred years ago. Powder balls are passé. Long range rifles win battles nowadays, Kip.”
“Personally, I like a little buildup,” Bruce exclaimed. “All that mounting and dismounting doesn’t amount to much.”
“Pardon me,” Kip said to Bruce. “I’m just trying to get to the bottom of things.”
“Well, if you want to get to the bottom,” Bruce stated, “start from the top and lick your way down.”
“Just forget I asked,” Kip sighed. “I thought we were on a serious mission for a second. What was I thinking?”
With Wint’s odd job now done, he slipped back into the shadows and flickered like a strobe of light on a lawn in West Egg. Kip sat motionless behind the steering wheel for a moment, peering at Bruce as if to wonder if any of this interaction was authentic. Of course, the fact that he turned to consult with a loquacious beagle undermined the credibility of a well-crafted ruse.
“I wonder if Wint’s bowler hat has a chakram in its a brim?” Bruce pondered.
“Who knows? Just please tell me I don’t look like Ted Bundy right now,” Kip groaned.
“Not at all, Old Sport,” Bruce assured him. “Bundy was much cuter than you. I was thinking more along the lines of John Wayne Gacy, without the extra belly rolls and sadistic clown makeup of course.”
By now Kip understood Bruce’s motivations, and these repetitive jabs were most likely designed to toughen the man’s disposition in case an actual threat hampered their progress. A 1968 Beetle may have not been the best or even least conspicuous choice for the task, but they were edging toward their destination ahead of schedule.
Chapter 19