The Toilet Paper Caper: Chapter 5
A Stark Mystery
Night had fallen when Darling pulled the Pinto to a creaky stop in front of a modest home on a tree-lined street. I always wondered what genius would name a car after a bean.
A half-dozen rag-tag people milled about, with an emphasis on the rag. One or two of them held hand-scrawled signs. A couple chanted, “Hey! Hey! Ho! Ho! This Whipple cat’s got to go!”
They looked like an impromptu Woodstock reunion. Only someone forgot to bring music or style.
I looked at Darling and she nodded to me. “This is it,” she said.
We disembarked and walked past the shade tree and up the drive.
Then it hit me. A toilet paper roll fell out of nowhere and smacked me in the head.
Laughter rose from the far side of the tree. I looked at the clutch of hippies standing there, picked up the roll and held it up like a trophy.
“Thanks!” Another burst of laughter came in response.
I said to Darling, “Do they have any idea what this is worth in my time?”
One of the protesters sent another roll soaring over the tree. It left a streaming trail of tissue behind. It too fell at my feet.
A cheer arose from the group.
I finally got it. They were tee-peeing the tree in Whipple’s front yard. I hadn’t noticed the tree was covered in white tissue paper. I almost got shot once, doing the same stunt.
One long-haired leaping gnome ran toward us. He looked like a low-budget Abbie Hoffman after one too many fork-in-wall-socket experiments.
He came up close and reached for the roll that had hit me.
“I need that back, man.”
“Can’t do it, Clarabelle. One of your minions tossed it to me. Possession being nine-tenths, and all that. Or do you prefer assault charges?”
Clarabelle made a sudden rude gesture at me, confirming there are still a few immutable elements to civilization.
With a smile, I lobbed the roll toward him. After a couple of turns, it landed cleanly on his extended finger. Bull’s eye!
All my cigar-flipping practice in the office finally paid off.
Clarabelle couldn’t believe it. More laughter rose behind him. He turned and squelched it with a look. I let him wrestle with the realization he had no clue about who I was or what I was capable of.
He tried to regain the initiative. “Are you a cop? You look like a cop.”
“Are you high? If I look like a cop, you must be.”
Darling laughed. I straightened my fedora. My cigar glowed brightly.
Darling said, “You can trust him. He’s with me.”
“Doesn’t matter. You know you can’t trust anyone over thirty.”
I flicked ash toward his feet. “Actually, I’m twenty-nine.”
“Sure you are, in dog years.”
“What?”
“You look pretty establishment. Who you supposed to be, Humphrey Blowout?”
I didn’t answer. The silence made him nervous. He looked at Darling, who shrugged.
He tried a different tack. “How do you live with yourself, man? Are you just a sell-out? Don’t you have any ideals?”
“They’re at the cleaners, kid. But listen up.”
He braced for it.
“In thirty years, you’ll be a tenured professor weighing the progress of your advanced paunch and your receding hairline. You’ll cling to the shreds of your so-called ideals by your offering rides to favored co-eds in your late-model, convertible Beemer.”
Clarabelle stepped back. He looked at me for a long moment.
“Cool,” he said.
Darling started to fidget.
I leaned into him. “Don’t forget, Clarabelle, you can check out anytime. But you can never leave.”
His eyes widened. “Wow, man! That’s heavy.”
He meant it.
“You can quote me. Hang tight. Come on, Darling.”
I took her arm and we walked away.
I said, “You know him? What a heavy dude.”
Darling stopped. “He ain’t heavy, Stark.”
I turned to her, stunned. “He’s your brother?”
. . .
Continues in Chapter 6:
. . .
Previous chapters:
