🚀 go-pugleaf

             < continued from preceding post >

   Custer Casino was busy, but this would not be surprising.
It usually attracted a lot of the West Reno teenagers during
the hot summer nights (thanks to proximity to a Dairy Queen)
and especially drew them in during the month of August,
when, for one week only, they would surreptitiously hide
"Custer's Revenge" amidst all of the other video games.
   Even without entering the arcade, Ichii could tell that
the establishment's best kept secret had arrived -- his keen
hearing picked out the raunchy catcalls and whistles from
all the other cacophony.  This only meant one thing to him,
that there would be less demand for Mortal Kombat.
   If only Mary would get up from the curb.

   So far, she hadn't been much company.  In the last hour,
she had spoken barely a dozen words, and half of those were
at the McDonalds where she half-heartedly ordered a Happy
Meal to go.  Ichii wondered whether someone could sue them
for false advertising.
   Instead, as they walked the block to the arcade, she had
veritably soaked his T-shirt with what seemed to have been
gallons of tears, as she shut out most of the world around
them.  When she wasn't sobbing, she merely sipped her Coke
in stony silence, her bubble gum planted neatly on the lid of
the cup.
   Her burger was only half-eaten -- she had expressed some
sudden disgust at red meat, and had been on the verge of
suggesting an alternative, when her eyes clouded over with
resignation.  Her fries, too, had been barely touched, and
now she was carefully sorting them by length.

   "Come on, Mary!" he prodded gently, unable to hide his
impatience.  "What's eating you?"
   Mary ignored him, as she chose a collection of long and
short fries.
   "It's those caves, isn't it?"
   A fresh tear appeared on her cheek, as she carefully
began to lay her French fries on the sidewalk.
   "But you were gone for weeks before that!  Your Dad's
buddies -- they did something to you?"
   The fearful look she cast him seemed to say "Yes, but I
really don't want to talk about it."  But no words came from
her mouth, as she resumed her strange little task.
   In frustration, Ichii tried another tack.
   "There's a new game in town.  It's another one of those
flight simulator things you always like, but this time you
like really sit in the cockpit."
   Mary's look was neutral, but with a non-committal shrug,
she nodded and placed one more fry on the curb.  The rest
she tossed back into the carry-out bag, as she meticulously
carried her trash to the nearest garbage can (retrieving her
piece of bubble gum.)
   The random assortment of French fries, however, retained
their position on the sidewalk, looking like a strange cross
between a random spill and graffiti.  If any passerby could
read Katakana, however, he would have recognized it as the
Japanese equivalent for "Daddy."

   Mary took to the new arcade game like nobody's business.
It didn't take her long to adapt to the controls, and in a
manner of minutes, she flew the simulated plane with
practiced ease, still on her first quarter.
   As usual, the game presented numerous obstacles to her
flight plan, mostly in the form of enemy aircraft.  Oddly,
Mary didn't shoot at them, but merely dodged and rolled,
only using her ammunition when a collision was unavoidable.
Yet, even though her non-combative play passed up thousands
of points, she made good through sheer survival, surpassing
the top score after fifteen minutes.
   "Sh**, Mary!" Ichii exclaimed, as he sat watching in the
twin cockpit.  "I know your old man taught you to fly, but
this is unreal!"
   A smile slowly crawled onto her face, but quickly faded
as she seemed to reconsider his words.  With a sniffle, she
returned her concentration to her flight.
   Word of Mary's play had spread around the casino, as was
indicated by the crowd of teenagers standing behind them.
In fact, Ichii could tell that even Custer's Revenge was
sitting idle and quiet.  Someone in the crowd saw fit to
unplug the headphone jack from his Walkman.

   [Music Cue: Pinball Wizard, by the Who]

   Everyone marveled as Mary smoothly doubled the previous
high score, yet Mary paid them no mind, locked in her own
little world as she flew.  Out of boredom, Ichii borrowed a
quarter from her coin purse and started up the twin.
   "Ichii!" she shouted gleefully as his fighter showed up
on her screen.  Ichii waggled his wings, and then set about
blowing up the opposition, which by this point was thick.
He still didn't understand how she managed to dodge all that
she did, but figured that if he could survive ten minutes
while shooting everything in sight, he might catch up to her
score.
   Ichii quickly found that this was easier said then done.
It was bad enough to learn an unfamiliar game -- it was
worse to jump in at such an advanced stage.  Although he
managed to hold his own for three minutes, scoring a slew of
beautiful hits, Ichii found himself zigging when he should
have zagged, colliding with a bomber in a fiery explosion.
   "Ichii!" Mary shrieked in horror as she twisted her head
to look out the side of the cockpit.  The arcade game not
being the real thing, she saw nothing, so she pulled up on
the throttle executing a dangerous overhead loop.  As her
plane began its descent, she frantically scanned the terrain
on the screen in front of her.
   "Relax, Mary!  It's only a game!  Just finish the level
and I'll be right there."
   Mary frowned as she pulled out of her dive and went on
her way, heedless of the wave of snickering her maneuver had
generated.  Ichii tried to block out all the murmurs that
his girlfriend was flipping out, as he sorted through all
the two-player game options.  He finally found one that
would not inundate the both of them with enemy planes.
   "All right, Mary," Ichii challenged.  "Let's see what
that rust-bucket of yours is made of."  He winked at her
conspiratorially, barely noticing her look of confusion as
she examined her display.  He shrugged as he climbed,
wheeling around to face her plane.
   "No!" she cried, instinctively dodging his approaching
fighter.  He gave out a whoop, as he pulled up and banked.
   "Relax!  It's just you and me, babe!"
   "But where are we going?  My transponder is out."
   "We ain't going nowhere!  This is the Dogfight scenario!"
With that, he pulled in behind her craft, guns blazing.
"Say hello to Papa!"
   He wasn't expecting Mary to scream.

                           *****

   One block away, an unmarked car pulled into a dark alley
and doused its lights.  From its hiding place, its occupants
had an excellent view of the far side of the street, from
the Dairy Queen on one direction, to a 7-11 in the other,
including Custer Casino, a movie theater, and a bar or two.
It was a favorite spot for stakeouts, with only one major
drawback: the nearest donut shop was five blocks away.
   That fact bothered the car's driver.  He wasn't paired
with his usual partner this time around, and he knew there
was no chance he was talking this one into taking the hike.
"Can I ask you a question, Lieutenant?"
   "You can ask," Lieutenant Harper responded, "but keep
your voice down."
   "Why are you out here with me instead of Larry?"
   "Let's just say I'm playing a hunch.  We may stumble upon
the Ghost we've all been looking for. [#16]"
   "The Ghost?  Really?  What kind of lead did you get?"
   "Well, Phelps, surely you've heard of 'Jackson Six'?"
   "Sure: the citizen who calls in on the police band every
once in a while. [#1]"
   "The same.  He telephoned a half hour ago.  He thinks
we'd be interested in a punk that hangs out at the arcade,
wearing a leather jacket."
   "Half the kids wear leather jackets!  That's including
the girls|"
   "Well, this one's apparently with a girl who should be
easy to pick out: black outfit, black hair, black bowler."
   "So what did he do this time?"
   "Nothing yet," Harper began to respond, when a sudden
scream filled the air.

   Phelps was out of the car in an instant.  Pocketing the
keys, he reached for his baton and started to cross the
street.
   "No!" Harper called with a commanding stage-whisper.
"Get back in the car!"
   "But --"
   "We aren't here, remember?  If there's a problem, someone
else'll take care of it."  Harper beckoned Phelps sharply,
and slid forward in his seat as the junior officer climbed
in.  The latter was about to open his mouth again as he
closed the door, but was stopped by an insistent "Shhh!"
from his boss.  Following Harper's stubby index finger,
Phelps noticed a girl that had just exited the casino,
dressed all in black.
   "Damn!  She's looking right this way!  Think she saw us?"
He ducked under the dashboard, only keeping his head high
enough to see.
   "It's not her I'm worried about," Harper replied.  "Our
informant says the suspect has the eyes of a hawk, and ears
to match.  That's how he's been eluding us so --"  He broke
off, holding a finger to his mouth, and pointed again.
   A tough-looking kid had darted out of the arcade and now
stood on the sidewalk in near predatory confidence, a white
male Caucasian with a vaguely Hispanic complexion, whose
attire matched those in the previous day's glossies.
   "Bingo," Harper muttered.
   "What *is* your problem?" the punk called exasperatedly.
He walked boldly toward the girl with the hat, who allowed
him to approach to within a yard, before she cringed, ran a
few steps, then stopped and turned away.  The boy continued
his advance and she repeated her reaction.  It looked like
an avant-garde pas de deux.
   "Why doesn't she just run --mmmph," Phelps began before
Harper clapped a hand over his mouth.  But it was too late;
the damage had already been done.  The hoodlum had heard him
and without another glance, grabbed the girl's shoulder and
begun to pull her up the street.  With sudden vigor, she
broke out of his grasp, and once again ran only a few steps
from him.
   "Come on!" Ichii whispered insistently, looking once more
at the two cops, who now had no reason to hide.  She simply
huddled against the wall.  The punk considered a moment,
then backed off and turned to run.
   "After him!" Harper ordered.  Phelps nodded and followed,
baton in hand.

   Lieutenant Harper slowly approached the pitiful creature,
who seemed to be shivering even in August.  "Was that man
harassing you, ma'am?"
   The girl looked sadly up at him, shook her head, then
looked back down at the ground, chewing her gum morosely.
Harper sighed deeply -- one of those cases.  He sat down on
the curb, vaguely recalling something about it being good to
make the victims feel tall.  Besides, it was the only way he
could see any of her face.
   "Now, I understand your fear.  You don't want to cause
any trouble.  It's a common feeling."
   She looked at him oddly, shook her head again, then
turned away, moving a few feet further down the wall.
Harper found it prudent not to budge.
   "You don't have to be afraid of me, ma'am.  I'm here to
help you.  But I need your help, too.  If you can tell me
anything, I can get that person out of your hair."
   No response.
   Phelps came running back.  "Sorry, Lieutenant.  I lost
him. He just --"
   Harper silenced his junior with a gesture, then stood to
face the victim, gently advancing, but keeping a good four
feet distant.
   "Now, ma'am, I'll be frank with you.  This isn't exactly
my kind of thing.  If you'd prefer, I can send a woman to
talk to you."
   The girl shrugged as if that were irrelevant.
   "Well, do you at least have a name?"
   "Mary," she whispered.
   "Anything else?  Any ID?"
   She reached into her purse and pulled out a wallet, then
extended it timidly.  Harper closed just enough to reach the
wallet, then carefully flipped through it, until he found
the driver's license.
   "Well, I'm a monkey's uncle," he breathed.
   "What is it?" asked Phelps.
   "I know this address."
                           *****

   "Say, Nene," the Mad Planarian called from his computer,
a prisoner in his own Pond.  "About that Caverns Special."
   Nene 27.5 (as she called herself) swam down, a thick
Bavarian torte in hand.  "Yeah?  What about it?"
   "You said you got those scenes out of archive?"
   "Tch, tch," Nene warned, wagging a finger.  "I toldja:
trade secret."
   "That's all right; I don't want the details.  I was just
wondering:  Would you be able to dig up the episode where
this whole mess gets resolved?"
   "Hey!" Cantata objected.  "That's cheating!"
   The Author raised both palms.  "It's just a question!
But you have to admit, it would save all kinds of time and
grief.  So.  Is it possible?"
   "It sure is!"  Nene 27.5 replied, displaying a cutely
mischievous grin.
   "Thanks.  That's all I wanted to know.  Sorry to have
disturbed your lunch."  The Flatworm turned back to his
keyboard and resumed typing, with one last off-handed
remark.  "You know, it's really too bad I can only afford to
keep one of you after this."
   Cantata flashed angrily.  "And what is *that* supposed to
mean?"
   Nene 27.5 tittered.  "It means you've gone the way of the
dodo."  She turned back to the Author.  "Thanks for bringing
this up.  I'll go tell my sister, let her down easy."
   "I Heard That!" Nene 27 thundered cutely.  "You seem to
forget: *you're* the duplicate."
   "But I'm the one who got him his hero back.  Face it,
sis!  You're old news!"
   The two siblings glared cutely at each other as they
argued, as Cantata flashed about them trying to get a word
in edgewise.  The Mad Planarian merely shrugged and went
back to his typing.
   Nobody saw the 32-inch lake trout that arrived on the
scene, following the scent of flatworm.

                           *****

   Richard Jackson's head swam.  In the space of only two
hours, Horace had described a whole series of events that
had transpired in only a few days, including multiple cases
of misplaced identity, a world-wide triple homicide [#15],
and an burglary/homicide in his own apartment. [#11]  FBI
Agents Johnson, Matson, and Dixon and filled in the rest.
   "And you're telling me half this stuff dates back to when
I dropped by D.O.G.M.A. headquarters," he summarized.  "Even
after I specifically told you to be careful. [#10]"
   "I can see why," Horace Beasley agreed nasally.  "But I
think I can at least say something for Beasley, before he
became me, er, you."  Horace waved the pronoun away with
annoyance.  "There was a homicide here, and he or I only
wanted to cooperate. [#13]"
   "I wish you'd done so with me." Agent Johnson muttered.
   "I wasn't at liberty to talk!" Horace countered.
   "And look where it got you."
   "Stop it, both of you!" Richard interrupted.  "Arguing
about that isn't getting us anywhere, and Charlie Chan would
have outsmarted you anyway.  There still isn't any evidence
linking him to anything, right?"
   The burly African-American snorted.  "There might have
been if the Chinese hadn't gotten to him. [#17]"
   "Well, that's why we're leaving for France in four hours.
I've got tickets for four; we've been promised to Interpol."
   "Interpol?" Horace asked.  "What the Hell[tm] for?"
   "There were two other murder cases that resemble this
one, one in London, one in Paris."
   "*#*!" Horace swore miserably.  "Murphy and Face!"
   Richard cast him an annoyed glance.  "My CO has arranged
for us to meet with them to determine what the connection
is.  Perhaps we can even link them to the hit on me, too."
   "I can live with that," Johnson agreed.
   "Now," Richard continued, turning to Horace.  "Could you
do me a big favor while we're over there?"
   "Depends what it is," Horace temporized.
   "Please remember you're the mild-mannered leader of that
pack of D.O.G.M.A. loonies.  It's bad enough for me to have
a clone running about, but I really don't think Interpol
would understand."
   "Understood."
   "Besides, we already know that you aren't me, so you may
as well get used to being who you used to be, Mr. Beasley."
He paused long enough to make sure that was what he meant to
say.

   "Next item: closer to home, Phoc Dhat.  Seems he's back."
The FBI agent raised a questioning eyebrow.  "I had a bit of
a run-in with him back in January. [#4-5]  Chemicals in the
wine, and such.  He's gone after me before.  So what have
people heard?"
   For a moment, there was no response, as Horace angrily
stared at the floor.  Finally, Dixon spoke up.  "Well, I've
got this videotape, came with the plane tickets.  Says here
'Fat Duck'.  Is that the same thing?"
   "Put it on."
   Everyone gathered around as the image of an on-site
interview lurched onto the screen.

      "... With me is Phoc Dhat, the owner of the much
   beleaguered Nipponapa Company.  Mr. Phoc: your state-
   ments to the police suggested that a member of the
   US Army was behind the raid on your factory?"
      "Yes, I did."
      "And do you believe that he had the help of the
   US Army?"
      "That I cannot say, but I feel confident that he
   and his associates shall be brought to justice."
      "So far, there is little direct evidence linking
   anyone to this dastardly raid. ... [#14]"

   "Wait!" Horace interrupted, pointing at the screen, which
now contained a grainy blow-up of Jackson in uniform.  "Back
up!  That was the other guy!"
   "The other wanna-be-me?"  Richard asked, as Dixon rewound
a few frames, and paused the tape.  At the shimmering edge
of the picture, a young man had arrived, carrying a picture.
He had just opened his mouth to speak.
   "Run it forward again -- let's see if we can pick up what
he's saying."
   The tape resumed with the image of Jackson again, as the
reporter gave her voice-over.  But with careful attention,
the gathered group pieced together a conversation in the
background.

      "Mission complete, sir!"
      "Excuse me, please."
      "I've identified the men in the picture.  This
   one here is Shang-lin 'Bruce' Li -- he's in San
   Francisco."
      "Li in San Francisco."
      "The unarmed man is Dennis O'Hara.  We called
   him 'Murphy'.  I think he moved to London."
      "O'Hara in London."
      "Next to me is our team leader, with the fuzzy
   image: 'Face' DeLong, who hoped to retire in Paris."
      "DeLong in Paris."

   "Is that it?" Richard asked as the tape cut out.
   "That's the whole clip, sir," Dixon confirmed.
   "'Bruce', 'Murphy', and 'Face'."  Agent Johnson whistled.
"And your Phoc Dhat large as life.  There's our connection."
   "And a confirmation that Frankie is working for the
opposition," Horace added.
   Richard stood in thought.  "One thing I still don't get.
Put that picture of me back up."
   Dixon did so, and Richard examined the flickering image
of his face with what for him would pass as a smile.  "That
looks like a rather recent photo, but I never had my picture
taken in uniform."
   "You never know what the press will dig up," Johnson
reminded him.
   "They can't dig up something that doesn't exist.  And
that picture the kid was carrying --"
   "Oh, *#*!" Horace cursed nasally, as he ran from the
living room.
   "-- I don't know where he got that.  We've broken contact
since the old days, and certainly didn't keep any records of
our activities."
   "Black ops?" Johnson prompted.

   Richard didn't reply, but then Horace had just returned.
"It's gone!  That's what the hit man was searching for!"
   "What's gone?" Johnson asked, with real interest.
   "The group photo from two years ago.  And now Phoc's got
a hold of it!  Damn!"  He collapsed miserably onto a couch,
already fatigued.
   "What group photo?" Richard asked dangerously.
   "You know: from the little reunion I, er, we organized so
we could introduce the gang to Mary.  She so much wanted to
meet them."
   "You told *Mary* about them?"
   "She *is* your daughter, you know!  It's time she knew!"
   "You had no right to tell her!"
   "Back up!" Horace wheezed, holding his palms up.  "*I*
didn't tell her!  This is before my time.  I'm just a mild-
mannered Author freak, remember?"
   "Don't try to pin this on me --"
   Horace simply tapped his own forehead.  "I'm not pinning
anything.  It's all right up here.  I know you better than I
know myself."

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