The Case of the Deadly Ha-Ha Game Read online

With the damp wind blowing in my face, I felt whole again—sane, restored, invigorated. Suddenly I remembered why I had gone into Security Work, and why I would never allow myself to be drawn into another conversation with my lunatic assistant.

  Anyway, I was in my element now, back on the job, charging out into the growing darkness to do brave and noble things—and to seize the Fabled Treasure of the Potted Chicken. You’ve heard of it, I’m sure, the Fabled Treasure of the Potted Chicken. Legends of the ancient Malarkeys and Babushkas had told of a fabulous treasure, don’t you see, which could be found at the west end of a rainbow.

  Why the west end? Nobody knew the answer to that, but for centuries dogs in America and England and Harmonica and other distant lands had searched in vain for the elusive treasure—a fat boiled chicken in a pot of purest gold. Over the years, thousands of dogs had lost their lives searching for the treasure, and now, by sheer chance and luck, it had come within the grisp of our grasp.

  On and on we charged. We could see it up ahead, a big beautiful rainbow, and the west end of it had come to rest right in the middle of our horse pasture!

  “There it is, Drover, straight ahead! Now all we have to do is claim it and eat the chicken.”

  “What about the pot?”

  “If we’re still hungry after the chicken, maybe we’ll eat the pot.”

  “I’m getting tired, and my leg’s killing me.”

  “Courage, Drover. Just a little farther. You can do it. Gut it out and make it hurt.”

  “It does.”

  “Great. Pain is our fuel, son, it’s the secret elixa­tive that drives us in this crazy business. We live on pain, we thrive on pain, we . . .”

  Huh?

  We had reached the middle of the horse pasture, the very spot where the treasure was supposed to be. And there we found . . . sagebrush?

  I cut my eyes from side to side. “Drover, something very strange is going on here.”

  “Yeah,” he whispered, “there’s two coyotes standing right over there, and they look hungry.”

  HUH?

  You’ll never guess . . . I’m sorry, but we’ll have to skip this next part.

  Too scary.

  Chapter Six: Caution: Cannibal Zone!

  We don’t want to get anyone hurt or scared out of their wits. Or crushed by disappointment.

  See, by the time we reached the middle of the horse pasture . . . do I dare reveal this? Maybe it’ll be all right, but I warn you, it’s going to come as a shock.

  Okay, by the time we so-forthed, the treasure was gone. No kidding, it had evaporized into thin hair. Thin air, I should say. It had evaporized into thin air, leaving us with nothing but sagebrush, beargrass, and spirits that had been crushed by the two-by-fours and rafters of our fallen dreams.

  Our treasure had vanished. Perhaps it had been stolen right from under our noses. Had Pete done it? Yes, of course, I should have known! And now, as we stood in the growing twilight, we felt the crushing weight of broken dreams.

  And suddenly we understood how they must have felt, those ancient Babushkas and Balonians and Muffwuffians who had sought the elusive treasure and, like us, had seen their dreams collapse like a rickety chicken house around their ears.

  It was a dark moment for the elite forces of the Security Division, but not so dark that we couldn’t see two hungry yellow-eyed cannibals staring at us. We saw them very well. Had they beat us to the treasure? No. As Drover had pointed out, they looked hungry.

  I swallowed down the bitter taste of defeat and turned to my assistant. “Drover, I don’t want to alarm you, but we have cannibals at oh-three-zero-zero. I suggest we go straight into Cannibal Counter­measures.”

  His teeth were clacking. “W-what does that m-m-mean?”

  “It means,” I shot a glance over my shoulder and saw that they were approaching, “it means that we’re going to deny everything.”

  “You m-mean, about the t-t-t-treasure?”

  “Yes, exactly. We’ll deny any knowledge of the treasure. If that doesn’t work, we’ll deny knowledge of everything else—us, them, the world, the entire universe. Our story will be that we really don’t exist and this is only a movie. The movie’s over and it’s time for them to go home. What do you think?”

  “I d-don’t think it’ll w-w-work.”

  “Stop clacking your teeth. You know that annoys me.”

  “I c-c-can’t h-help it. I’m s-s-scared of c-c-coyotes.”

  “So what? Everyone’s s-s-scared of c-c-coyotes. The imp-p-portant th-thing is t-to . . . Is that you c-c-clacking again or is it m-m-me?”

  “I th-think it w-w-was y-you.”

  “Hmmm, y-y-yes. As I w-was s-s-saying, c-clacking is a perfectly n-n-n-natural reaction and it’s e-e-even g-g-good for the d-d-d-digestion.”

  “How could it be good for the digestion? Hey! I’m not clacking anymore. I conquered my fear! Are you proud of me?”

  I gave the runt a withering glare. “D-d-drover, s-s-sometimes I th-think you’re trying to make a m-m-m-m-mockery of m-m-my . . . shhhh! H-h-here they come. I’ll d-d-do the t-t-talking.”

  “Well, you’d better quit clacking, or they’ll know you’re scared.”

  “W-will you sh-sh-shut your l-l-little t-t-trap?”

  I rushed to the computer of my mind and typed in the commands to Erase All Clacking Files. I had to hurry. As Drover had noted, it wouldn’t be good for me to address the cannibals with a speech implement in my voice. Impediment. Wh-wh-what­ever. I gazed at Data Control’s vast screen and waited. Seconds passed, then a message appeared:

  “French fries or hash browns?”

  I shot a glance at the coyotes—Rip and Snort, as you might have guessed. They were only five feet away. In desperation, I retyped the message: “Erase the clacking files, you idiot, or we’ll all be eaten by cannibals!!! If we go down, you’ll go down with us.”

  A message flashed across the screen: “Peanut butter sandwiches are slightly higher west of Obser­va­tory Park.”

  In a flash of anger, I screamed, “You moron! At a time like this, do I care about peanut butter sand­wiches?”

  I noticed that Drover was staring at me. “Are you talking to me?”

  I whirled around. “No. Yes. I’m not sure. Did you just say something about peanut butter sand­wiches?”

  “Well, let me think. I don’t remember. What did I say?”

  “You said . . . I can’t remember. No, wait. You said they’re slightly higher west of . . . Mount Rush­more, I think it was.”

  “Nope, that wasn’t me. I would have said they’re made out of peanut butter.”

  The coyote brothers were almost on top of us now, but I couldn’t deal with them until I got to the bottom of Drover’s barrel. I sensed that there was a clue here that might send the case careening in a new direction. “Why would you say that?”

  “’Cause they are. Everyone knows that peanut butter sandwiches are made of peanut butter.”

  “Right, and if everyone knows it, why would you bother to say it? And why would you ignore the part about Mount Rushmore? Don’t you care about our great presidents?”

  “You’re not clacking anymore.”

  “That’s no excuse, and don’t argue with me. The point is . . .” Hmmm. I wasn’t clacking anymore. It appeared that Data Control had come through in the crutch. I typed in one last message, just before all our communications were cut off: “Hash browns, you dork.”

  Then I turned to face the . . . yipes, the toothy grins of the cannibal brothers. I took a moment to collect my thoughts and seize a breath of fresh air, then beamed them a broad, friendly smile that spoke of the Brotherhood of All Dogs and Doglike Creatures.

  “Hi, guys. Nice evening, huh? You bet. How’s the family? Great. Let me go straight to the point and say that we know nothing about the Fabled Treasure of the Potte
d Chicken. Honest. And since we know nothing about it, it’s obvious that we’re not out here looking for it.”

  They gave me blank yellow stares. I plunged on. “Furthermore, we deny any knowledge of anything. We didn’t do it, you can’t prove a thing, you have no case, and, well, I guess we’d better be moving along.” To Drover, I whispered, “Start edging back toward headquarters.”

  He was gazing up at the clouds. “What?”

  I had to raise my voice. “I said, back toward the starting edge of headquarters, and hurry, before these guys get suspicious. Move. Oh, and try to act normal.”

  “I’ve been trying all my life.”

  “Good point. Forget normal. Try to act unconcerned, calm, confident. Whistle.”

  “You know, I never could whistle. My sister whistled all the time and I was always jealous.”

  “All right, don’t whistle, and I don’t care about your sister.”

  “She was the sweetest girl I ever met. How could you not care about her?”

  “Do you want to talk about your sister or live to see another day? Start edging toward headquarters, and hum.”

  “Hum?”

  “Yes, Drover, hum. Hummmmm.”

  “Oh, I get it now.” He gave me a wink. “Hum hum hum. Hum hummy humbug. Humly hum­mering hummington. Humblebee hummeration humming ho-hum.”

  This seemed to be working. The brothers hadn’t moved, and were staring at us as though . . . well, as though they couldn’t believe their eyes and ears. That was fine. They were falling right into my trap.

  I turned and gave them a wave of farewell. “Well, guys, see you around. Tell the family hello.”

  Suddenly, and I mean in a flash, they were standing in front of us, bristled up and blocking our path. Snort spoke. “What means all this hum-hummery-humblebug stuff?”

  “It means . . . well, it means that Drover is a happy little dog.”

  “Ha. Rip and Snort not give a hoot for happy little dog.”

  “I see. Well, at a deeper level, Snort, the humming symbolizes our, uh, feelings of confidence, don’t you see. We feel good about who we are, and along those very same lines, we feel good about who you are. Isn’t it good that we all feel good about, uh, who we are?”

  Snort stared at me for a moment, then clubbed me over the head with his paw. “Hunk talk stupider and stupidest. Rip and Snort not give a hoot for feeling good. What means talk about Trea­surous Potty Chicken?”

  I picked myself off the ground and straightened my ears. “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He raised his paw to club me again. “Oh, that! Okay, here we go. You mean the Fabled Treasure of the Potted Chicken?”

  He nodded. “Tabled Treasurous of Potty Chicken. Rip and Snort got big hungry for potty chicken.”

  “It’s Potted Chicken. Pot-ted. Chicken in a pot.” Snort raised his paw again. “Okay, okay, have it your way. It’s Potty Chicken.”

  The brothers exchanged winks and chuckles, and Snort said, “Ha! Hunk not fool Rip and Snort with dummy talk and change up words.”

  “I guess not. So you’re demanding that I tell you about the Potted . . . eh, the Potty Chicken? Is that what I’m hearing you say?” They nodded. “What if I told you it was secret information?” They stared. “Don’t you even care?” They stared. “Look, Snort, if I gave you the secret, you’d probably go right out and steal our chicken.”

  “Rip and Snort berry good for steal chicken.”

  “Yes, but that would be cheating.”

  “Ha! Rip and Snort berry good for cheat too, better cheatists in whole world.”

  “Yes, but then everyone would call you a chicken cheater. Is that how you want to live your life?”

  “Coyote brothers wanting to live life with tummy full of chicken—or dog.”

  My mouth was suddenly dry. “I see your point. Okay, guys, you leave me no choice. I guess I’ll have to tell you everything.”

  And with that, I let it all spill out, all the classified information I had dragged out of the cat, and had spent so many long hours and months piecing together. When I had finished, they knew everything, every detail—that at the west end of every rainbow, there sits a golden pot of boiled chicken.

  Our secret was lost. And so were our hopes of ever finding the Fabled Treasure of the Potted Chicken. On the other hand . . .

  Heh heh. I had every confidence that the cannibals would go streaking off to find the elusive west end of the rainbow, thus leaving us free to make our escape.

  Heh heh.

  Pretty clever, huh?

  Chapter Seven: I Issue a Challenge

  Even though I had found a way of turning this security disaster into a silver lining, it was with a heavy heart that I had spilled the milk.

  I mean, every dog dreams of the day when he can eat a whole chicken all by himself, and we’re talking about free chicken, one that doesn’t have to be chased all over the ranch and mugged and defeathered and so forth. And don’t forget that attacking chickens was a serious crime on our outfit, and it could get a guy in big trouble with Sally May.

  She fed those chickens and got twelve eggs a day from them, don’t you know, and she took a dim view of any dog who made a habit of . . . well, eating them, shall we say. Why, the last time I’d gone after one of her chickens . . .

  Wait, hold it, stop, whoa! Strike that last sentence from the record. It’s not only inflammatory, but it creates a false impression of the truth. In other words, I was misquoted.

  For the record, let me restate my Position on Chickens. Chickens are dumb birds who . . . slurp, slurp . . . were placed on this earth to be . . . slurp, slurp . . . funny, my mouth starts watering every time I think about . . . slurp, slop . . . but back to the point, chickens were put on this earth to be . . . slurp, slop, slorp . . .

  I can’t go on with this. Sorry. The strain is just too much. Maybe you can finish up my Position on . . . slurp, slurp . . . never mind.

  Okay, where was I? Free chicken, there we go. Free chicken is every dog’s dream and fondish wist. But the coyote brothers had changed all that.

  When I had emptied my soul and divulged all the classified information that would allow the brothers to steal our Fabled Free Potted Chicken at the End of the Rainbow, I felt a terrible sense of guilt and emptiness.

  I turned to Drover. “I’m sorry, son, but it was us or the chicken.”

  He was staring at the clouds. “What?”

  “I said, I’m sorry. I had to do it.”

  His eyes drifted down and he gave me his usual silly grin. “Oh, hi. What did you do?”

  “I spilled the beans. I told them everything. They beat it out of me.”

  “Boy, I love beans.”

  My lips quivered as I tried to think of something to say to this . . . this nitwit, this moron of indescribable proportions. I could think of nothing to say. The boat of my mind had been swamped by the roaring sea of his . . . never mind.

  I whirled away from him and saw . . . huh? The coyote brothers were . . . laughing? I was stunned. The boat of my mind, which had so recently been swamped by the waves of Drover’s blathering nin­compoopery, was now dashed upon the rocks of . . . something.

  “Hey Snort, I just gave you some incredibly valuable information, and now you’re laughing. What’s the deal?”

  “Deal is that Rip and Snort not believe one word of big phooey lies about potty chicken and rainbows, ho ho.”

  “You mean . . . you mean you don’t believe in chickens?”

  He stopped laughing and gave me a menacing glare. “Coyote believe in chicken but not believe in rainbow.”

  I searched their faces. “How could you not believe in rainbows? There’s one right over there, plain as day.”

  They exchanged smirks. “Ha! Hunk-dog got big stupid in head. Rainbow not real, just color in air. Rip and Snort ch
ase rainbow many times and never catch one.”

  “Hmm, yes, of course. We had the same, uh, problem. It moved.”

  They took a step toward me. “Potty Chicken just big phooey lie, another trick Hunk try to pull on Rip and Snort.”

  I began backing up. “Wait a minute, fellas, this is all news to me, and also a terrible shock. I mean, I thought I was giving you . . . no kidding, we got that information from a very reliable source and I want to assure you . . . Drover, do something! Hey Snort, I think I can explain everything, honest. See, we’ve got this cat on the place . . .”

  They were licking their chops by this time and things were not looking good. “Rip and Snort not get potty chicken for supper, but maybe find something gooder and goodest, oh boy!”

  “Listen, guys, speaking of cats, how about we work a deal on a nice fat kitty, huh? How does that sound?”

  They shook their heads in unison. “Not got cat. Got two dummy ranch dogs, ho ho.”

  “That’s not funny, Snort, and I must warn you that Drover has a terrible temper.” That didn’t work. Drover had already collapsed in fright. The cannibals just laughed. “Okay, singing. You guys love to sing, right? Everybody knows that, so why don’t we, well, burst into song?”

  They shook their heads in unison. “Guys too hungry for burp into song.”

  “Yeah, but I said burst, not burp. There’s a huge difference.”

  “Coyote berry expert at burping and not give a hoot for huge different.”

  “Okay, then . . .” I took a gulp of air and plunged into my very last idea. It was a little crazy, but it was my last shot. “Okay, Snort, just for that, I challenge you fleabags to a contest of courage, skill, and brute strength.”

  They stopped. Their ears shot up. They ex­changed puzzled looks. “What means, brute strinks?”

  “Strength, Snort. Strength, as in strong. It means the strength of a brute. Only a heartless brute could win this contest, and you guys probably aren’t tough enough to enter, much less win.”

  Snort pounded himself on the chest and roared. “Coyote got plenty brute! Coyote bruter and brutest, and got bunch of strinks, too. Coyote beat up whole world with bruter strinks.”