“Well, if ‘tis good dope....”
“Mudge!” Weegee looked up at Jon-Tom. “Why would anyone want to do that to us, Jon-Tom?”
“To find out why you’re intelligent. To find out why you can talk.”
She shuddered. “This world of yours is a horrible place.”
“Not horrible, really. There are some good people in it, just as there are bad. It’s not all that different from your world.”
“Hush now,” Mudge told her, drawing her close. “Let the man concentrate on ‘is spellsingin’.”
Jon-Tom sang beautifully, softly. His voice and the dulcet tones of the suar rang through the truck. He sang until his throat was raw and his fingers were numb as they rumbled over rough roads and smooth. And nothing happened.
They were on a highway now. The truck hardly vibrated and their speed had increased. He finally gave it up.
“I’m sorry. Not surprised, but sorry. Clothahump told me time and again it wasn’t easy to bounce people from one world to another. But I had to try.”
“Don’t take it too ‘ard, mate. Maybe if you ‘ad your duar....”
“I’m not sure it would make any difference. I’m not sure magic works in my world.”
“Dull place then. Don’t worry about Weegee and me. We’ll make out all right. Won’t we, luv?”
“Sure. We’ll manage.”
They wouldn’t, he knew. If they kept silent whenever anyone else was around they might be able to slip away to freedom one day. But what kind of freedom would that be? The freedom to roam an alien world, cut off from others of their kind, unable to go home? Fugitives in a strange land. “I hear a new sound.” Cautious pressed his ear to the rolling door that sealed the back end of the truck. “Some animal is chasing us.”
Jon-Tom frowned. “Dogs maybe.” On the highway? They were doing at least fifty. “Is it still there?”
“Coming closer. Screaming steady-like.” Screaming? Then his eyes got very wide. “Police siren.”
“Local cops? Crikey, that’s bloody wonderful.”
“Not if they see us.” He was thinking rapidly. “If they do they’ll want to haul us all in as material witnesses, and that only if they’ve a lead on these guys as dealers. If not, they’ll probably just let ‘em go. Maybe the truck has a taillight out or something. We’re sure not speeding. No, we’ve got to get out of here fast.”
The siren was clearly audible now. The truck slowed, pulled over onto the shoulder. “Be quiet. I want to listen.” He climbed onto a desk and leaned close to one of the cracks in the roof. He could just hear one of the patrolmen ask Cruz for his license. Then the words, “Open it up” and Cruz replying politely but tensely, which was to be expected. “Hey, what’s wrong, officer? We haven’t done anything. You said we weren’t speeding, and there’s nothing the matter with our truck.”
“It’s not that, buddy,” Jon-Tom heard the cop reply. “Routine inspection. We’re looking for undocumented aliens.” Jon-Tom hadn’t thought of that possibility. He wondered how someone checking on the presence of undocumented aliens would react to the sight of two giant-otters and a five-foot-tall raccoon. Probably not what the patrolman had in mind. No immigration law would allow for Mudge and Weegee.
And just like that the old Genesis song popped into his head. He immediately launched into the first stanza, not caring if Cruz or the cops or anyone else overheard. Mudge and the others packed themselves tightly around him as he sang, wishing Phil Collins was there to back him up with voice and drums.
“Hey, eets no fun, bein’ an illegal ayleeun....”
“Come on, pancho, open it up.” The patrolman stood impatiently next to the back of the truck. Cruz was fiddling with the lock, taking his time and wondering how he was going to explain the presence of ‘a kidnap victim. They could always insist he was just some crazy hitchhiker they’d picked up. Maybe he’d just take his animals and split, glad to get away.
“Really, officer, I don’t know what kind of shape our stuff is in back here. My poor Consuela and I packed for days and days. If everything has shifted it’s all going to fall out.”
“We’ll help you pick it back up.” The patrolman sounded tired. He also had the build of an ex-linebacker and was in no mood to coddle suspicious characters at two in the morning. Cruz knew he’d stalled about as long as he could. “Open it, or we can open it at the station.”
“Oh no, no need of that, officer. It’s just that this lock here, it’s kind of rusty.” He took a deep breath and rolled up the door. “See, nothing but furniture and one...” he broke off. There was nothing in the back of the truck but furniture. There were no giant otters, no oversized raccoon, and no lanky, bigmouthed young Anglo. They had gone.
The cop turned his flashlight on the furniture. Something was moving in the middle of the household goods. The light picked out the shape of a large colorful parrot with bound wings and beak. It struggled mightily to squawk a protest but was too tightly tied.
“That’s no way to move a household pet,” the patrolman declared disapprovingly.
Cruz stammered a reply. “I know, man, but Consuela wouldn’t listen to me and . . .”
“Never mind. I’m not looking for birds. If you guys were smuggling endangered species you’d sure as hell have a load of more than one.” He leaned back and yelled toward the cruiser parked in front of the truck. “Skip that call in, Jay. These guys are clean.” By way of apology he offered Cruz a reluctant, professional smile. “Sorry to hold you up, buddy.”
“Hey, no sweat, mon. We all got to do our jobs.” Cruz waited until the big patrolman had climbed back into his cruiser and driven off into the warm Texas night. Then he shouted for his partner.
“Manco, get back here, mon!” When his companion arrived he saw on his boss’s face a mixture of confusion and glee. “The kid and most of his animals got away, but the cops didn’t find the coke.”
Manco peered into the truck. “You sure? Somebody’s been into that trunk.”
“Whaaat?” Cruz jumped into the back of the truck. He ignored the struggling, sputtering parrot. “Oh, mierda.” The two of them started pawing through the furniture, tossing pieces out the back of the truck, not caring if they broke on the unyielding pavement.
Two hours later they sat staring out the back of the truck, forced to admit defeat.
“I don’t understand,” Cruz was muttering disconsolately. “How the hell did they get out of the truck? It was still locked when that cop and I opened it up. How did that skinny bastard get out!”
“Maybe the animals chewed their way out?”
“I didn’t see no hole in the roof.” Cruz dropped his head into his hands. “What are we going to tell them in Vegas?” He was running his long fingers through his straight black hair. “That a college kid and some trained animals made off with forty kilos of coke from the back of a locked truck?”
Manco looked wistful. “I got relateeves een Cheeleh I ain’t seen seence I was a keed.”
“Terrific. Except we ain’t got no money for airline tickets and I forgot to renew my Visa. How about you?”
“Just a few bucks for expeenses. But thee man doesn’t know when we’re supposed to show. We’ve got a chance to get away.”
“Without money?”
Manco gestured into the truck. “We steel got that beeg talking parrot. We can sleep eento Vegas and sell eet for plenty, then go straight to the airport.”
Cruz perked up slightly, turned to gaze at the bird in question. It stared back at him with an alarmingly intelligent eye. “What if we can’t get it to talk? We aren’t animal trainers like that kid.”
“Hell, it’ll talk. I know a leetle about birds like that. Give them some food, you can’t shut them up. Thees one ought to be worth a fortune.”
“It sure as hell can say more than polly wanna cracker. Maybe we get out of this yet.” He slapped his compadre on the back. “All right, Manco. We go to Vegas, dump the furniture at some pawn shop and sell the bird. Then we take the first Aeromexico south. I’ve always wanted to see South America.”