Swine Not? (15 page)
Anteater on the Loose
RUMPY
I
DON’T KNOW
how long I slept. The care and feeding I had received from my human had certainly brought my physical self back around, but the mental scar of being sliced by the Butcher was still very fresh indeed.
In a fitful nightmare, I’d been trapped back on the icy ledge inside the room-service table while Boucher tried to connect gas pipes to it, turning it into an oven with me inside. Then the dream changed to a serene hill behind our house in Vertigo, where the whole family was gathered for a picnic, but I wasn’t anywhere in sight.
The ring of the phone woke me up and brought me back to my hiding place in Maple’s closet. When I peeked out at the day, I could tell it was early evening by the color of the sky in the west above the park. I studied the airways for any signs of the Pigilantes; those birds could certainly explain to me what had happened in the park. They were not around.
“Rumpy?” Maple called to me with a large question mark in her voice. “You have to see this. Please come out.”
I could hear her talking to Barley on the speakerphone. From what I could make out, he was at the soccer match, and something playing on the JumboTron at the stadium had made him call Maple. He was shouting above the roar of the crowd.
I had behaved pretty badly toward the kids, and my shame about that more than my fear of the Butcher had me curled up in Maple’s closet. I owed them a lot, so out I came.
“Good girl,” Maple said as she led me to the living room.
SpongeBob had been interrupted by a newsbreak, and the mayor’s face appeared on the screen, haggard and distraught. He was in Central Park, standing in front of a fire engine with a dozen cameras pointed in his direction. The mayor was making a plea to the people of New York for help with a personal matter. He went on to explain that a hero had saved his mother’s life and then vanished without recognition. As he spoke, some shaking footage played of an old lady being dragged from a flaming bench by a weird-looking creature. The mayor described the creature as an anteater, which the police and fire department were trying to locate. The mayor closed by offering a reward to anyone with information about this noble hero.
“Hmmmm,” Barley’s voice mused over the noise of the crowd in the speakerphone. “Does that anteater look familiar to you?”
Maple looked at me. “Very familiar indeed.”
They were doing that twin mind-meld thing, and I knew exactly what they were thinking. Then Maple smiled at me and said into the phone, “Barley, I think we have just bought this anteater a one-way ticket off this roof forever. Tonight is the mayor’s birthday dinner, remember?”
Barley told her Maple to keep me hidden, and he and Oliver would come right home after the game. Then we would all go down to the hotel lobby and tell the mayor the whole story — right in front of Boucher, Mr. Flutbein, the camera crews, and the entire population of New York City, which would be the perfect time and place to ask Mr. Flutbein to end the exotic-pet ban at the hotel.
“Perfect,” Maple said with a smile. Barley hung up and SpongeBob reappeared on the TV, but Maple and Syrup had their eyes focused on me.
“That was one clever old anteater, wasn’t it, Rumpy?” Maple asked.
I snorted with joy, even though my snout hurt. I knew that through the bizarre events that had just transpired, I had found a completely new way to find Lukie. The mayor was my key. I had saved his mother; now he would help me find my brother.
It’s Not the Avon Lady Calling
RUMPY
J
UST AS I WAS
about to doze off, the front-door buzzer rang. Maybe it was the mayor, and my prayers had been answered earlier than planned. Since he was such a smart man, it probably didn’t take him long to find out that the pig who saved his mother actually lived upstairs on the roof of Flutbein’s Hotel, where he and his mother were about to have dinner.
Maple went to answer the door, but even before she reached it, my snout picked up the all-too-dangerous, familiar stench of Turkish cigarettes, garlic, and wine. Syrup dashed by me and bolted under the bed. I heard Maple squeak, “Monsieur Boucher! What a surprise!”
I peeked out as best I could from Maple’s room.
In the doorway, Boucher loomed over her. He was wearing a bloody apron and held a brightly wrapped gift under his arm. The smile on his face was sinister. “Ah, Mademoiselle, your mother’s very busy tonight, and she wanted me to check on you . . .”
Listening to his sickening effort to charm Maple, I was torn between wanting to launch an immediate attack on him and trying to compress myself like an octopus so I could squeeze into the farthest corner of my hiding place.
“Mind if I smoke?” he asked as he lit up a cigarette and slithered into the living room. “Where is your brother?”
“He and my dad are on their way back here from the soccer game.”
“You have a father? Ha! I thought you two were hatched.” He bellowed at his rude joke.
I was starting to get steamed up at the thought of this butcher bullying little Maple, but she was a cool customer. “They just called from down the block,” she told him calmly.
Boucher tried to move farther into the apartment, but Maple stood in his way. His eyes scanned the living room and kitchen.
“Really?” he said, exhaling a large cloud of putrid smoke. “I heard on the radio that the game was tied. They were about to start the penalty kicks. Doesn’t seem like a game any real soccer fan would want to leave, does it?”
Maple didn’t take the bait. “No, they should be here any second.” She was trying to act relaxed, but I could detect the fear in her voice.
I wasn’t going to let this go on much longer. I stretched my neck farther out to try to get a better view.
“Tell me,” he said, now dropping the phony sweetness from his voice, “when did you get rid of that swine and get a family dog, in keeping with the policy of this hotel that forbids exotic pets?”
I knew where he was going and got ready to attack.
“You know, that was my idea,” he bragged. “I convinced Mr. Flutbein that the only place for exotic animals in this hotel was on a serving platter. Did you know that in China they eat dogs?” he said, followed by that sickening laugh. “You’re devoted to your pet, I feel sure . . . but since I also love animals, won’t you show it to me?” he asked.
For a moment, Maple didn’t respond, but then she calmly said, “No, Monsieur, we have no dog. Just a cat.”
“Then what is this?” Boucher hissed, and yanked something out of his jacket. It was not the knife he’d used on me but a handful of 8 x 10 photographs. I inched toward the doorway and could clearly see images of the kids in their ASPCA shirts, strolling through the park with me on a leash. There were also several shots of the room-service table, one of me in the lobby with the dog walker, and finally a close-up of me in the park near the hedge where he had attacked me.
“I can fire your mother and send you and your brother to reform school. You have broken the law. The dog you claim not to have is a pig!” he screamed.
I was now on high alert. I knew any minute I might have to give my life for Maple, and I was ready to do it.
“You think I only know about food?” Boucher ranted. “No! Boucher knows a few other things, too . . . Number one, canines do not have hooves like lesser creatures do. Number two, swine are stupid and vulgar and sufficiently unclean to contaminate whole cities . . . and number three, it is irresponsible — not to mention illegal — to conceal a hog in a hotel in Manhattan!” The Hunchback from Hackensack took a swig of whiskey from a flask in his coat. Then he lapsed into French. “Et quatre, cinq, et six, les enfants who commit this crime routinely go to prison!” Blue veins rose steadily in the pale sides of his face as he raged away. “You thought no one was watching when you took your pig for a stroll? Wrong!” he boomed. “I am too clever to be deceived by children. You see, I was just waiting for the right moment.” He pulled a cell phone from his coat and stabbed away at the numbers. “The police are swarming around this hotel, looking for any person or any pig that might present a potential threat to the mayor . . .”
“You can’t call the police without talking to my mother!” Maple cried.
“Of course I can! I am the head chef of Flutbein’s Hotel,” Boucher snarled. “And as for you ill-mannered, spoiled brats, you will be taken away to a dark cell where large spiders are happiest. Your idiotic mother will believe you ran away and will die quite soon of heartbreak — and I will take all the credit for her marvelous desserts. But before then, I will dine on your pet.” The vision perked him up. “So . . . how do you feel now, Mademoiselle?”
Sobbing, Maple just stood there.
This was it. Now was the time to charge the Butcher and hit him with all my speed and weight. Hopefully I would cripple the fiend. Then I would squeal so loudly the whole city would be on our roof in seconds — cops, Pigilantes, Barley and Oliver, Lukie, and every person and creature in the whole wide world. I knew they would all hear my cry for help. But just as I was about to heave myself in the direction of the murderous Boucher, I was overcome with a hypnotic aroma. It made my legs weak, and my head started spinning.
Boucher had pulled the brightly colored wrapping off the gift box he was still holding under his arm. He tore off the plastic seal and placed the box on the table. “Since you have decided not to tell the truth to your mother’s employer, I’m afraid you must watch the beast die.”
I immediately knew the box contained my favorite food in the whole word — chicken fingers, the heroin of hogs, steaming and juicy and sizzling.
Boucher continued, “Hypnotized by the scent, your pig will be drawn to my hand.” He reached into his coat and pulled out an even deadlier device than his knife — a giant hypodermic needle, which he raised up to the light. Out of the end of the needle, he forced the first few drops of what had to be some kind of poison.
Wild-eyed, he leered at Maple. “It will be instant death by injection.” Then he whispered in an almost comforting tone, “Don’t worry, I am not going to send your precious pig to the Beanie Weenie factory.” He moved back toward the table and put the box of chicken fingers on the floor. “No, no, no! Next week, you will see your pet on a national magazine cover.” He reached for the fruit bowl. “Like this!” he screamed and jammed an apple into his mouth. He ripped a bite from the fruit and spoke as he chewed, spitting pieces of apple onto the floor. “And its eyes will be sewn shut — the centerpiece of my next feast!”
Maple was paralyzed with fear.
Then Boucher began to sing, “First injection, then convection, then I roast it to perfection . . .”
Follow Those Pigeons
BARLEY
D.C. U
NITED
had come out on fire and scored a stunning goal in the opening minute of play. Then, for the ensuing one hundred thirteen minutes, my dad and I joined the other forty thousand soccer-crazed New Yorkers in watching a scoreless match. At the start of the game, Dad had all the enthusiasm of a fanatical Red Bulls fan, but by halftime, his team spirit had fizzled. He told me that watching a soccer match was like watching paint dry.
Suddenly, the Red Bulls seemed to sense the desperation of the situation and took a cue from the name stitched across their jerseys. They came roaring down the field with just over two minutes to play. The crowd immediately felt the energy shift, and they jumped to life as well. People all around us were shouting and stomping their feet, and then everyone started chanting in unison. Against all odds, our top striker, Miguel Miguel, had positioned himself in the box for a last desperate shot. I wasn’t the only one who saw him slip in. An entire stadium filled with Red Bulls fans and the whole United defense watched him, but it was too late. Out of a cluster of United and Red Bulls players, the ball suddenly crossed into the box and ricocheted off the back of a defender. Miguel Miguel rocketed toward the ball, and for a moment it seemed suspended like a little planet in orbit. Then he launched a header into the corner of the net. We were tied and going into overtime.
I don’t know how I heard the cell phone in my jacket ring in the melee that followed the goal. It must have been that “twin thing” at work. Somehow I knew it was Maple, but what took me completely by surprise was what I heard coming through the phone.
My sister was panic-stricken, and in the background I could hear the hissing shouts of Boucher. It was obvious that the Hunchback from Hackensack had discovered Rumpy and was threatening Maple. The Red Bulls would have to win without us.
I plucked Dad from the celebrating throng and told him Maple was in trouble. We tried calling Mom, but I knew she’d have her hands full with the mayor’s dinner; her cell phone just took a message, and the phone line to Flutbein’s was one long busy signal.
Somehow the soccer and traffic gods seemed to sense our need to rescue Maple and Rumpy. We sped across the George Washington Bridge in ten minutes and then saw the clogged lanes of the West Side Highway and flashing lights in the distance. Dad finally got through to Mom and told her to get to the roof with the police. When I heard him say, “That creep better not lay a finger on my little girl!” I knew that he meant it.
As our taxi crept along, I took in a strange sight — a flock of pigeons that seemed vaguely familiar was circling the cab. When we stopped in front of a red light, they landed in formation on the hood of the taxi, and the lead pigeon pecked on the windshield. They were trying to tell us something.
“Follow those pigeons!” I told the cabdriver.
He looked at me like I was crazy, and then he looked at my father.
“You heard my son. Follow those pigeons!”