Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys]

  ***

  "Your valise is packed with the North African clothes as specified, my Baron."

  "Thank you, Mia," I acknowledged, while loading the essentials -- laptop, passport, notepad, spare pens and paperclips -- into my attaché. I had spent a good part of the afternoon marshalling my forces in preparation for a hasty departure, realizing that arriving in Tunis ahead of Bridgework would be critical to any chance of success. "Any word on the flight information yet?"

  "No, my Baron. The internet is down for the moment. All travel agents have been phoned and are researching our options."

  "Very well. Smudgely, see to it the Duesenberg is tanked full and roadworthy. We may just get underway shortly and make final arrangements while on the road."

  "Sir. One point of consideration."

  "Yes?" My mind wandered away into the sticky, undefined mix as to why Sondheim did not suggest taking down Bridgework in Newark. "That would be?"

  "Mr. and Mrs. Kornblatt borrowed the Duesenberg to drive home a few of their fellow birdwatchers. Mr. Kornblatt has repeatedly expressed his desire to operate the car and, in a moment of servile weakness, I permitted him to do so. They plan to stop by Shadrack's Market on their return, sir."

  "That's fine, Smudgely," I said, checking my watch. Stinky, in addition to drooling at the advent of Mia, had developed a fixation with the Duesy sometime back. Allowing him a turn behind the wheel would alleviate one of his two wishes. "We'll coordinate with Mia, as necessary."

  The next hour dragged at such a sluggish pace I felt deafened with every tick of the various Manor clocks. Stinky and Conestoga proved unreachable by cell phone, which only added to the aggravation Mia experienced attempting to obtain overseas airline reservations. During this time, I politely bid farewell to departing guests and members of our VIOLENCE function while pacing the main hallway from Mrs. Potsdam's pantry to the theatre room at the east end of the house. Finally, with luggage stowed by the main entrance, I could stand the delay no longer and decided to ring Sondheim once more.

  "The cherry blossoms in Washington are more plentiful than congressional aides." I used the most recent code supplied by my veiled employer.

  "Baron, old fraction, so good to hear from you again," Sondheim answered on the fifth ring. "We're in the midst of a board meeting, so if you wouldn't mind being brief."

  "Certainly." Being admonished for perceived long-windedness before I had spoken contributed increasingly to my load of anxiety. "Why don't we simply paddock Bridgework in Newark? Usher him to a VIP lounge, let him stew a bit, then place a bag over his head before taking leave to the nearest government truck. I'd have him to you in a matter of hours."

  "Both good and bad thinking, old abacus, much of which we've already accomplished here." Sondheim's measured avuncular pitch had, in my unsettled state, a knee-buckling effect upon me. "You see, Bridgework is conducting some ritualistic international scavenger hunt. I presume that was part of your foray into the Andes. Quite bizarre, really. We thought it best to allow the old boy his day in the sun, so to speak. See where he leads us and what it is he's collecting. Sound plausible?"

  "Thus far." I was somewhat distracted by Mia's note-taking and smile as she sat, legs crossed, on the large marble bench just outside the front door. "Go on."

  "Extending the leash, you see, allows him to venture off US soil, my good orthopole. Should the occasion arise that our subject requires obliteration, well, it's best done in a backyard of a neighbor where there's less scrutiny, don't you know."

  "Obliteration?" As confusing as Sondheim's instructions were at times, this one moment I angled for nothing less than clarity. "Isn't the plan to bring him in alive?"

  "It was and is. I'm just letting you know all options are now on the table, given new developments."

  "New developments? Since we last spoke?"

  "Indeed, old Euclidean distance. It seems the Bridgeworks have separated yet again, this time at O'Hare. Damned busy place to be carrying on a relationship as it is. The old gal --"

  "Ethelene?"

  "Has taken a flier to your neck of the woods, it seems. What her intentions are, we're not sure."

  I involuntarily slapped my forehead. "You were planning to inform me of this, yes?"

  "Naturally, old subgraph. As I said, we've been a bit tied up here, with ordering out for dinner and what not."

  "Pizza? At a time like this?"

  "Chinese, actually. Mandarin."

  "Neeyug."

  "Isn't that a Malaysian dialect, my good binomial theorum?"

  "When you next hear from me, Sondheim, I'll give you my answer!" Finishing the conversation, I unintentionally pinched my finger while closing the mobile's cover. "Sweet mother of God!"

  "My Baron!" Mia's outcry came as I sunk my foot deep into the leather umbrella holder next to the coat rack doors. "You must harness your emotions."

  "O, forlorn as I may be, surrounded by those who impose thine will upon me so!" I was orbiting to the heights of being out of control.

  "I have news of your flight. If we hurry, you can catch a Slipstream Green --"

  "Imposed again and once more!"

  "Flight from Boston to Halifax to Reykjavik to Dublin to Madrid to Casablanca, then Tunis."

  "Newg!"

  "But you don't have to get off the plane, my Baron."

  "Sir, there is still no sign of Mr. and Mrs. Kornblatt. Would you like me to check the petrol in the Packard?"

  "Oh my goodness," Mrs. Potsdam said, entering the hallway to further jack the elevation of stress, "the blueberry chutney's gone ripe, sir, and I dumped it all over me favorite apron, wouldn't you know!"

  "Nenna!" Try as I might, I was tongue-tied with the indignation of airline routes, friends who borrow cars and exotic spicy relishes. "I need to --"

  "Sir! The Duesy approaches!"

  For a quartet lacking any type of rehearsal, we moved with great poise and purpose to the portico, arriving in time to see a distressed Duesenberg -- sputtering and coughing as though it had contracted a dismal cold -- circle the cul-de-sac and glide to a stalled-out stop just shy of the front steps.

  "My word!"

  Out from the driver's door staggered a flustered Conestoga Kornblatt, hair disheveled and blouse torn, with a trickle of blood evident at the corner of her mouth. Her intent was to cross the front of the stately vehicle, but like an intoxicated overweight teenager attempting execution of a delicate danseuse chaîné she spun helicopter-style nose first into the bubbling fountain.

  "Conestoga!"

  One of the many admirable traits possessed by Smudgely is his deceptive strength, the shear physical ability he houses in what would otherwise be rightfully considered a bog-standard sexagenarian body. His alert reaction, actually vaulting the hood of the Duesy with his left arm rigid and both legs fully extended, was all the more surprising when his rescue effort was superseded by that of the stout and plucky Mrs. Potsdam who, arriving a step behind the sprightly valet, fished Conestoga from the mountain spring fed drink by wrapping her burly arm around the anguished woman's plentiful midsection and heaving upward.

  "Conestoga!"

  "Baron," a most confused Mrs. Kornblatt snorted before attempting to dive into the fountain a second time.

  "Conestoga, gather yourself! This is no time for a swim!" I moved to intercept her and aid Mrs. Potsdam, who by now was affecting a full nelson on the troubled soul. "Who did this? Where's Stinky? What in the name of Saint Aloysius Gonzaga happened?"

  "It was terrible, Baron, just frightful," she gasped and, with a surge of adrenaline, hoisted Mrs. Potsdam airborne. "We were hijacked by highwaymen. Stinky's been kidnapped by terrorists!"

  "Ethelene," I muttered, lowering Mrs. Potsdam to the ground while easing her death grip on the distraught Mrs. K. "That caps it right there! Where did this happen?"

  "At the, at the," she gulped and stammered, repeating her attempt to enter the fountain once more, "at the base of the drive. Just as we turned off the main road. Po
or Stinky!"

  "Smudgely! Mrs. Potsdam!" I gestured for the two to pin Conestoga against the nearest pillar. "How many did it? Was one of them a female? Did they say anything?"

  "There was three of them, all big men. They kept calling Stinky you, Baron. 'Baron' this and 'Baron' that, then calling him other names, 'Walter' and 'Skeef'."

  "Skeet," I corrected her. "Go on."

  "They said no disguises would fool them this time. Oh, it was pure horror! I was in shock."

  "Did Stinky put up a fight?"

  "He did. He got me pretty good in the mouth by accident, but I have to say I had it coming. All those years of criticism. I never cut the man a break! Oh, Baron, you have to save him! Save my Stinky, my dear husband!"

  "Three big men, you say. Would you classify them as Holsteins in suits?"

  "More like," she sniffled in disagreement, "gorillas."

  "But Holsteinish nonetheless?"

  "Perhaps," Connie hesitated, obviously not inclined to split hairs with me at the moment, "if cows subscribed to bipedalism."

  "That's a very good point, Conestoga. In this instance, I concede that gorillas they are." I ran my hand over my brow, visualizing the thugs and their wicked feelings carried for me. "This I know. Germany 'Stinky' Kornblatt and I share a bond which renders us inseparable. He is a loving husband, an honest public servant and dear friend. We have seen one another through both the joys and devastations life is prone to squish in one's face. He will never be abandoned!"