“Shut up, Warren,” said Heather and Dylan.
While the others argued, Brad looked past them into the living room, where a television the size of a rhinoceros silently played an ad by a local car dealer, Sheriff Wayne Jr. What caught Brad’s eye was that Sheriff Wayne Jr. was shouting about his low, low prices from the back of a weary and distressed-looking llama.
“Hey, guys,” said Brad, pointing. “What about this guy?”
6
The morning after their meeting with Woolrich, Coop, Giselle, Morty, and Dr. Lupinsky pulled into the parking lot of the Brian Z. Pierson Museum of Art, Antiquities, and Folderol. They were in a blacked-out DOPS van because it was the only vehicle Dr. Lupinsky could fit in. Coop wasn’t pleased. To him and 99 percent of the world, a blacked-out van meant one of two things: cops or serial killers, and both groups were high on his Run Like Hell From list. Still, they’d made it to the museum without law enforcement stopping them to look for dismembered limbs or old ladies wanting them to find their lost cats. And that was good, because Coop had his own cat problems.
Before they got out of the van, Giselle called the DOPS on a secure satellite phone with enough antennae and weird wires trailing from the sides that it looked like a pinup girl designed by extraterrestrial crabs.
“We’re going in. Kill the cameras,” said Giselle. She noticed Coop looking at her and said, “What?”
“One day that thing is going to turn your brain into lobster bisque.”
“Don’t be such a technophobe.”
“I’m not a technophobe. I just don’t trust all those DOPS gadgets.”
“It’s just a phone, Coop.”
“She’s right,” said Morty. “I have one just like it. They’re fine as long as you don’t talk too long. Then sometimes you can get a little dizzy.”
“That’s what I mean,” said Coop. “Better check your ears for tarantulas.”
“If I have bugs in my head, I don’t want to know.”
“There are no bugs, Morty,” said Giselle. “You just have to be careful because the phone’s electromagnetic field can have a tiny effect on your balance.”
Morty made a face. “Is that a nice way of saying I have cancer?”
“No. Just don’t sleep with it close to your head.”
“Good. Because I’d rather have bugs. I’ve got a cousin who’s an exterminator. He’d give me a good rate for a blowout.”
“I thought the bug business was a front to get into buildings,” said Coop.
“It is, but he has to have the gear to look legit, right? He cleared out the mice on my ex-sister-in-law’s brother’s farm. Of course, all the trees died, but they’re what attracted the mice in the first place, so it kind of worked out for everyone.”
“Except the mice,” said Giselle.
“They did fine. Moved over to a local college campus. Sure, some got caught by one of the labs and now they have ears on their backs, but they eat good and they’re warm at night.”
“Kind of like us, right, doc?” said Coop. “Federal mice running a maze for a piece of cheese.”
The cat on Dr. Lupinsky’s screen meowed.
Don’t talk about mice. I’m getting hungry.
“Do you eat, doc?” said Morty.
Metaphorically. They send in video mice sometimes. They don’t taste like anything, but they’re fun to chase.
Morty said, “My mom would smack me if I played with my food. Here’s a big government scientist getting paid to do it.”
“I’m sure Dr. Lupinsky does a lot more than play with mice,” said Giselle.
Thank you.
“When was the last time you did a field job like this, doc?” said Coop.
The cat stopped pacing for a minute and lay down on its back like it was thinking.
The Tutankhamen tour. New Orleans, 1978.
“Wait. You haven’t done fieldwork in over thirty years? How did you wind up on this job?” said Coop.
My legs finally work. For a while, I was on a little flying saucer. That was fun. But it ran off a small fission reactor from Roswell. That put some people off. They used to call me Kittytastrophe.
“That’s not very nice,” said Morty.
I couldn’t really blame them after the incident in the basement.
“This being the DOPS, let me guess. You had a meltdown,” said Coop.
The cat lay down and put its paws over its face.
Did you know that we don’t work in the original DOPS building? That one is gone. Dropped through a small wormhole created by the physics lab.
“They dropped a whole building down a wormhole?” said Giselle.
Dr. Lupinsky said mrrreeeoow. Below it read:
I’m afraid so.
“Where did it come out?”
No one knows, but occasionally strange dumping fees appear in the feeds from deep-space radar.
“Got to pay your bills, doc,” said Coop. “A bunch of upstanding citizens like the DOPS stiffing an interdimensional garbage dump? What kind of an impression are we making out in the universe?”
“That’s probably why UFOs are always probing people you know where,” said Morty. “They think it’s where we keep our wallets.”
Giselle’s phone beeped. She spoke into it. “Great. Thanks.” She put it in her bag. “The cameras are down. We have the run of the place.”
“Let’s get you out, doc,” said Morty.
He and Coop opened the back of the van and a wheelchair ramp lowered itself to the ground. Dr. Lupinsky stepped gingerly down it to the pavement.
“You doing your Marilyn thing, Giselle?” said Coop.
“Already on mind patrol. No one can see any of us.”
“Remember her range isn’t infinite, so let’s stay together when we get inside,” said Coop. “That goes double for you, doc. Someone sees you, they’ll think it’s War of the Worlds and you’re here looking for loose change in their asses.”
Understood.
Canvas banners hung all over the museum grounds advertising HARKHUF: TREASURE OF THE DEEP DESERT. Coop stopped at the bottom of the front steps, staring up at a banner that spanned the whole front of the building. He said to Morty, “You see the ropes on the right? Some of the grommets holding them in place are loose.”
Morty pointed to the other end of the canvas. “There’s one over there that’s torn.”
“Nice,” said Coop.
“What’s nice?” said Giselle.
Coop pointed. “The banner. It’s cheap. The museum couldn’t afford to put out the cash for even a big show like this.”
“That’s good news for us, right?”
“We’ll see,” said Coop cautiously.
Giselle led the way into the museum, standing next to an oblivious security guard as she walked in the front door. Morty turned and walked backward a few yards.
“That front isn’t much to look at security-wise. Take down the power and kill the alarms, I could get in here with a pair of chopsticks and a credit card.”
“Speaking of taking the power down, what kind of emergency generator do they have?”
“Let me see,” said Morty, staring at the blueprints as they walked.
The group didn’t so much walk across the lobby as they did a silent samba. Since no one could see them, it was their job to get out of everyone else’s way. Luckily, it was early enough in the day that the crowd was small. Unluckily, everyone there had their noses shoved into museum brochures about the exhibit and weren’t looking where they were walking. This forced Coop and his group to be doubly careful. Coop was most worried about Dr. Lupinsky, but soon saw that he didn’t have to be. On his octopus legs, the doctor did a respectable Gene Kelly routine around everyone that came his way. He even seemed to be enjoying himself.
I guess thirty years in a basement can make you a little loopy.
He remembered his last eighteen-month stretch in jail, the one Morty was responsible for. By the time he got out, he might have danced a little jig himsel
f, only Morty showed up, and smacking him was just as good.
Lupinsky was first into the Harkhuf exhibit. The room was crowded with mummies, jewelry, pottery, and canopic jars surrounding Harkhuf’s ornate sarcophagus in the middle. Coop stopped in the doorway.
“What are you thinking?” said Giselle.
“It’s actually kind of impressive. Pretty, even. Kind of, I don’t know . . . mysterious.”
“Wow. Charlie Cooper getting moony over a three-thousand-year-old dead guy in his underwear.”
“Be nice or I won’t steal you a snow globe.”
“Liar. You always steal a snow globe. It’s your signature move in places like this. Al Capone didn’t have anything in his vault, but when they open yours, they’re going to find floor-to-ceiling snow globes.”
Coop went to Harkhuf’s sarcophagus to check out the security. “It’s L.A.’s fault. When was the last time we had Christmas snow? Christmas ought to have snow.”
Giselle stood next to him. “Sentimental is what you are. A sentimental, hamster-loving, snowman maker.”
Coop started to say something, but Morty weaved his way through the crowd, with the museum blueprints in his hands. “The emergency generator you were worried about?” he said.
“Yeah?”
“It doesn’t exist.”
Coop looked at the blueprints with him. “Are you sure?”
Morty slapped the plans with the back of his hand. “This place is a dump,” he said.
“I get what you mean,” said Coop. “It’s like it’s daring us not to break in.”
“It’s an insult to crooks. It’s our civic duty to take everything,” said Morty.
“I agree.”
Giselle held up another DOPS device. It looked like a little satellite dish mounted on a piece of honey-glazed ham.
“What about magic traps and curses?” said Coop.
Giselle shook her head. “Nothing. Morty’s right. I say teach them a lesson and take it all.”
Dr. Lupinsky stood across the sarcophagus from Coop, gazing inside.
“How about you, doc? Want a whole museum in your office?”
Dr. Lupinsky stood up and swung his kitty television head around the room. The cat sneezed.
Sorry.
“No problem. What do you think of the show? Should we clean it out to teach them a lesson?”
Don’t bother. Most of it is junk.
“What do you mean?” said Coop a little nervously.
Besides Harkhuf, there are six other mummies in the room. The ones that are real are in poor condition. From what I can see, at least two others are replicas, and not very good ones. It’s the same with the tomb ornaments.
“But Harkhuf is okay,” said Coop.
Dr. Lupinsky turned back to the sarcophagus.
He’s excellent. The only specimen worth taking with us.
“I don’t get it. Why would the museum put up a bunch of third-rate stuff?” said Morty.
“According to you, everything about the museum is third rate. They probably wanted to make their sad little show look bigger and the museum more successful,” said Giselle.
I agree, flashed on Dr. Lupinsky. The cat on his screen froze. The screen went blank for a second, then flickered back to life. The cat staggered and lay down.
“What’s wrong, doc?” said Coop.
I think my batteries are low.
Coop looked at Morty. “Did you bring the batteries?”
Morty heaved the heavy backpack from this shoulder. “Of course. And I carried it in, so you get to carry it out. Right? It’s only fair.”
“Sure. Whatever,” said Coop. “Just get him open.”
Morty led Lupinsky to an empty corner of the room. It was a dangerous business, moving through the crowd with several hundred pounds of metal octopus staggering like it was on a motor-oil-and-vodka bender.
When Morty got Dr. Lupinsky to the corner, he pulled the back off the television and started removing the old D batteries. He handed the used ones to Coop, who handed them to Giselle. “We’re still out of sight, right?” he said to her.
“We’re fine,” she said. “Just don’t drop anything.”
As she said it, Morty fumbled a couple of batteries, trying to hand them off to Coop. They landed on the floor and rolled all the way across the room. The crack as they hit the marble was loud enough to get everybody’s attention. Luckily, the batteries rolled away from them, bounced off the bottom of the sarcophagus, and kept going. A guard with sleep-deprived eyes picked them up and put them in his pocket. He looked around for a minute before going back to looking sleepy and bored.
Coop held open the pack with the good batteries for Morty. He took fistfuls, fitting them into the compartment in the back of the television as quickly as he could. When it was full, he closed the door.
Dr. Lupinsky jumped up on his tentacles. The cat on the television ran wildly back and forth across the screen.
A mad purr came from the tinny speaker.
Thank you. That’s much better.
“Glad to help,” said Morty. “What do you think? Have we seen enough?”
I have. There’s nothing of value besides Harkhuf, some of his burial items, and the sarcophagus itself. It’s a shame we can’t take it, too.
“Woolrich didn’t say anything about the box. He just wants the mummy,” said Coop. “Less work is good work.”
The cat lowered itself on its legs, with its butt in in the air.
I could carry it.
“It won’t fit in the van,” said Coop.
Morty tilted his head. “I don’t know. If we move some stuff around . . .”
“It won’t fit,” Coop insisted.
Morty straightened up. “You’re right. It probably wouldn’t fit.”
I’d like to come on the robbery.
“Sorry, doc. We can handle the job. You’re a smart guy, but you’re just a part-time crook. Understand?”
Yes. I understand.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Morty. “This place depresses me.”
“Me, too,” said Coop.
The other two agreed and they headed out together. In the lobby, Coop walked away from the group.
“Coop! I don’t have you covered anymore,” whispered Giselle.
“I’m getting a snow globe.”
“Aren’t you going to steal it?”
He stopped and looked around the place. “It’s just too pathetic for that. I’ll meet you at the van,” he said, pulling out some cash.
The others went outside and Coop spent twenty-seven dollars on a snow globe with a figure of a mummy inside that looked less like Harkhuf and more like toilet paper wrapped around a rotisserie chicken. It made his bad mood worse. He thought about tossing the thing in the trash but instead he paid for it and palmed a pack of gum on the way out. Morty and Giselle had been right. Robbing this dump was their civic duty. It was like going to the moon. Sure, there weren’t any moon people or lakes full of moon water, but it was just what the country needed to feel better about itself. Stealing from a place like this, a place that was just daring them to do it . . . it was what all of them needed. A nice night out breaking the law and knowing there wasn’t anything anyone could do about it.
Coop tucked the snow globe under his arm and tore the wrapper off the gum. Maybe things were going to work out all right after all.
Froehlich watched the batteries bounce off the sarcophagus and gently come to rest against the side of his left shoe. He looked around for whoever might have dropped them, but not seeing anyone, he picked them up.
D cells. You don’t see these around that much anymore.
They were the most interesting thing he’d seen all day.
After one last look around, he put the batteries in his pocket. That was the last thing the museum needed. Someone tripping, and then a lawsuit, just when the show was taking off. Well, maybe taking off was a bit optimistic. But Harkhuf was bringing in the biggest crowds the museum had seen in
years.
We don’t need the story about a lawsuit eating up time on the news when they should be talking about the exhibit.
That’s why he’d worked so carefully with management to hush up what had happened to that idiot Gilbert. Luckily, no one on the loading dock saw him fall into the Dumpster. The body was still limp when Froehlich had it transferred with a load of new trash into the big industrial compactor. Mr. Klein from upstairs had already given him some under-the-table “discretionary cash” to make the problem go away. All he had to do was call a friend in the hauling business and Gilbert would be in a landfill under a ton of debris by the end of the day. There was just one thing that bothered him.
Okay, two things. Froehlich blew into his cupped hand and sniffed. He’d heard some of the guards say that his breath smelled like instant coffee, and the comment had stuck with him. He’d started chewing spearmint xylitol gum. It was supposed to help, but he couldn’t tell any difference. The inside of his mouth still smelled to him like a two-day old coffee filter in a Tijuana cathouse—something, sadly, he knew a bit about.
The other thing that bothered him about Gilbert’s idiot death was that it might have been a missed opportunity.
Maybe the museum shouldn’t have covered it up at all. Maybe they should have played it up. Turned it into a front-page story. Maybe drop some hints about a mummy’s curse. Why not? Harkhuf was a good-looking guy, but he couldn’t fill the room himself. No, they’d had to call in favors from small out-of-town museums and even a couple of sideshows to borrow their flea-bitten stiffs. They’d even resorted to renting a couple from a movie prop company.
But the show was still, well, limp in his eyes, and sales at the gift shop were down, not up. Maybe Gilbert had been right about billing Harkhuf as a brutal, heavy-metal mummy. What had he called Harkhuf? Ozzy. Yes. Ozzy, the Metal Mummy. Who would be his next victim? They could build a whole ad campaign around that. Maybe even get some sponsors. If the board liked it, Froehlich wouldn’t need to mention that it was Gilbert’s idea. If they hated it, he could pass it off as a loser’s dying words. But if they liked it, it could change a lot of things for him. Starting with his job. Froehlich didn’t want to end his days upside down in a Dumpster. Ozzy could be a good first step back away from that lousy fate. As long as no one ever found out about the fakes.