Bad Advice

It felt like the middle of the night. Under Bridge Lane was empty as Ben Bear and I slowly walked up to the Jackster plant from the parking garage. Up at the end of the street cars were noisily rushing along the high overpass where Memorial Drive exits to Poultry Bridge. Behind us Poultry Bridge itself obscured half the sky. Hedged in down here the Under Bridge Diner was closed except for a neon sign in the window. Mary Lambkin was probably tucked up in her bed next door to the diner, with just her bedroom light on upstairs, reading her daily mystery novel. There was still a single light on at the back of the office of the Jackster Service Station. I could see it faintly through the window. Probably Wilma Bunny working late, watching TV and waiting around.

The flat concrete face of the Jackster plant loomed above as Ben and I went in through the little side door. High above us the ivy fluttered against the wall. We checked in at the teleportal dock and I looked over to the assembly line where I could see the Bats all launched on their night shift. Their supervisor, Billy Bat, up in his loft, had turned down the orange lights to low. Nobody noticed us. Ben ambled down to his office and I knocked softly on my own office door and tried the handle. It was open. I stepped into the dark. Through the window I could see the moon above Beastburg and the top cabin of the listing Jackster Ferry. The listing was getting worse by the minute. If by now no one across the river had noticed that the ferry was tipped at an angle it was because no one was looking.

"Sybilla?" I said.

"I'm up, Jack," she said and I looked across to her workstation where Sybilla Spider was hanging by a thread above her high rise. Her monitor glowed softly.

"Working late?" I asked.

"Why aren't you at Woody Spit, Jack?"

"One thing after another has kept me in town," I said, "Everyone has been onto me about it. I've got one more thing and then I'm gone."

"Have you talked to Jilly," Sybilla asked me and I could hear concern in her voice.

"She's still singing at the club. I'll call her before taking off. Anything happening here?"

"Jack, I'm a little worried about your plan to stay out at Woody Spit this week. This might not be the best time."

"Why?"

"We've got a lot going on at the plant and you're the public face. We have meetings all week. If you're not around you should get someone to speak for you at the meetings."

"Like who?" I asked. "Condon Duck maybe, or Einstat Chimp?"

"I was thinking Amanda Rabbit. She was in today with Hat and I know she's got a light week."

"No, not Amanda. She doesn't even work here. It wouldn't be appropriate."

"But everyone likes her. Those other guys are hopeless."

"She's great, Sybilla, and I know Jilly wouldn't get jealous or anything but they're known to be best friends and if Amanda stood in for me the Jackster Plant would talk. You may not have the right perspective, being a Spider, but Rabbits are known for an unfortunate tendency to being oversexed. I'm afraid she's too cute."

"I know that, Jack. What do you take me for? What do you think they say about us Spiders? Everyone talks about how in the old days us Spider girls had sex once and then killed our husbands."

"Not any more they don't, Sybilla. That's ancient history."

"No, not any more. Now we just divorce them."

"Like you divorced Harold. Maybe you'd better get Ben Bear to front for me," I said.

"I guess the old lug will have to do," and Sybilla drooped on her thread. "But don't just rusticate, Jack. Call me every morning from Woody Spit, first thing."

"Fine," I said. "That's a promise." Then, taking one more nervous look at the ferry, I left.

Gordon Yorkie

From The Caves it took us ten minutes to get down to the plant in my Jackster. Ben Bear crammed himself into the seat next to me. While I drove through the night he was talking all the time on his teleportal. We pulled into the Old Ferry Parking Garage at the bottom of Under Bridge Lane and drove up the ramp and then down two levels to the boat dock. For windows there were oblong breaks in the concrete walls letting in glints of light from Bestburg's skyscrapers across the River Wide. The bulk of the Jackster Ferry began to loom large as we went down, tipped slightly on its side in the water. There were several Animals standing around looking over at the ferry as we pulled into the thrust. The sliding metal connector plate, which ties the ferry to the Parking Garage, was pushed askew on one side, to accommodate the tipping of the boat, and I was afraid we'd hang up the Jackster on it. I parked right there in the entrance, on the docking thrust, and we walked over. Gordon Yorkie, our Old Ferry manager, was standing waiting for us on the ferry writing something on a clipboard. The steep sides of the top level framed him and car ramps went up and down behind him. Small circular portholes were cut into the high grey metal sides.

"Has the inspection been made?" asked Ben Bear, walking up to him.

"I'm just checking everything off," Gordon mumbled through his whiskers. "But I can tell you that we've found nothing to explain the tilt. We're carrying a lot of extra water in the bilge. But we often carry extra water. The ferry's old. And there's twenty more Jacksters on the port side, so she's a bit unbalanced. But, still, that shouldn't make any difference. It's a mystery."

"Where were you headed?" I asked.

"Up river," said Gordon.

This seemed the right moment for me to say something. "Maybe you should go down the coast and have our crew at the West Cleanser dry dock take a look at her. They could run a full test of the stabilisation program on the ship's computer."

Gordon looked doubtful. "If we can get there," he said, "It could get worse. And you know we'll need special permission from the Coast Guard."

"We don't want the press to get wind of this if we can avoid it," said Ben. "A tippy ferry full of Jacksters floating right off Beastburg would look bad in tomorrow's Gazette. or on the TV news. Maybe if you moved those twenty Jacksters to the other side it might fix the problem."

"I don't think so," said Gordon. "This isn't a normal ballast problem. She's listing about fifteen percent. I'm not sure we can take her out like this. If we don't know what causes it we can't know what might make it better or worse. It's a problem."

"Open the door to the bilge and get some passing fish to look around," I suggested, "See if they notice anything strange. Meanwhile, I'll go up to the plant and call a Coast Guard Dolphin into the holding bay. When I send the message I'll say we just want to change the manifest. Then we can negotiate the change of destination in person. The Dolphin can sonar for permission. Those Coast Guard Dolphins are smart. They might even have an idea why we're listing."

"OK," said Gordon, "We'll just hold the fort until we hear from you."

I'd never thought of it before but the wide entrance to the Jackster ferry did look a bit like a fort. A floating metal fortress tilting 15 degrees in the lapping estuary water of the River Wide. I was supposed to be tucked up in Woody Spit by now and here I was on the River Wide. Holding the fort.

Ben's Beer

I pulled off River Run and headed steeply up The Caves. Ben Bear lives about half way up in one of the early conversions. This whole warren of The Caves is very old and historically was exclusively lived in by Bears but for half the life of this city it has just been an ordinary, if somewhat high tone, neighbourhood. Animals are drawn to it by the great views of Beastburg Castle and the Wide River. I parked my Jackster where I could and walked in along one of the many paths that cut across the steep hillside. All the caves look very similar on this level and I hadn't been here for a while so I kept my eye out for the names on the wooden postboxes that were standing out in front of each cave.

The lights were on and I knocked on the big round door. Mrs. Bear, Ben's mother, let me in. She was looking old and thin in a shabby pink paisley dressing gown, carrying a glass of water. The whole look of the cave on the inside hasn't changed in fifty years, though it probably looked bang up to date when first decorated. Angular furniture in pale woods and all low to the ground was arranged very neatly and set out from the walls.

"Ben's upstairs, Jack. He'll be pleased to see you," Mrs. Bear said and led me up a wide stairwell. Ben was in the upstairs sitting room, decorated in the same style, watching TV and drinking a beer. He was watching what must be one of the last black and white televisions left in Beastburg. When he saw me he got up and turned off the TV. Mrs. Bear shuffled off somewhere.

"Nice surprise," Ben said. "I thought you were going out to Woody Spit for a spell."

"I'm still on my way," I said. "But I've had an idea for advancing the Hoppermobile and I wanted to tell you about it in person."

"Shoot," he said.

I told him about my experience of waking from a dream at Bridget Beaver's house with the elusive germ of an idea and then happening across another idea, a different idea - the thought that the Hoppermobile could have a separate circular drive wrapping it all around the middle like a donut. This drive could turn it into what we might call a 'Hoverhopper'. It could hover as well as hop. While I talked Ben got up and got a couple of beers from a tiny fridge behind the sofa and gave me one. When I finished explaining how I thought a Hoverhopper could work we sat there in silence for a while drinking our beers and looking out the small window at Beastburg Castle away across the water. Ben didn't react at all to my idea.

After a few minutes Ben broke the silence, and surprised me, by saying, "Who do you think make the best mechanics?"

"When we were racing, in the early days, I thought it was the Weasels," I said, "They were always so fast and accurate."

"But they have that one little problem," said Ben, smiling at me and waggling his beer.

"Yeah," I said. "Always true. But now I'd have to say the Bats are the best. They're not afraid to get their hands dirty."

"I'd agree," said Ben, "They're kind of the intellectuals among mechanics. So clever at thinking their way through the tricky problems."

"Why do you ask?"

"I was thinking," said Ben, "That I'd get Marge Bunny to create a new crew to work on this one. We could take some Bats from the assembly line and bring them down into the pit in R&D. That way we could push this one fast. See if it can fly, as it were."

"Sounds great," I said. "Try to get Billy Bat to go for loaning out some of his crew. I'll leave you to it."

Just then the teleportal rang. That was that. We didn't mention any of this business again.

The Squirrel Monkey

By the time Joe Dog was out of the Diving Bell and waiting on the curb for Bonnie Bimbo he was looking fairly sober. He swayed a little but a slight sway is part of Joe's normal, 'cool', persona. His hands were in his pockets, his jacket wasn't too disheveled, and he looked out at the world as if he were ready to engage with it. I was pleased with him. The rain had stopped and the clouds had risen a little. It was going to be a nice night.

I swung my Jackster out onto Orbital Drive and joined an interesting traffic pattern. Everyone on the highway was going a very smooth 40-miles-per-hour in both directions - a car length of space between every car. Personally, I didn't mind the slow down. Nobody was waiting up for me out at Woody Spit and I knew once I crossed the Poultry Bridge and headed down Memorial Drive it would thin out. I hit the radio and they were playing a cut from Fatty Walrus's new album, Ghostie Romance - a song called The Way You Look Tonight. Sultry and elegant.

The city lights, the dark clouds, the rolling sea at my side - everything had a silky quality. All these evenly spaced cars dancing along the coastline, keeping their measured pace, made me wonder if Orbital Drive got its name from way cars are orbiting the city like a constellation of stars whirling about some huge central star.

I noticed that the car next to me was a red Jackster run by a young Squirell Monkey. He had the Jackster with the arm conversion. The guy was sedately pumping the steering wheel back and forth to the rhythm of Fatty Walrus. It was funny seeing somebody driving along and pumping his Jackster to exactly the same rhythm as I was (even though I was doing my pumping with my feet).

Poultry Bridge was coming up and I changed my mind about going straight to Woody Spit. It wasn't that late. Ben Bear would still be up. I could tell him about my idea for adding an active rotary shaft to our prototype Jackster Hopper, the Hoppermobile, and renaming it the Hoverhopper.

To get up to The Caves I needed to change lanes to get into the River Run lane on the Bridge. I nudged the Squirell Monkey next to me and he let go of his steering wheel and gestured me in. He waved me in front of him keeping time to the music and giving me a big grin. He had noticed that we were rolling along together and pumping in time to Fatty Walrus on the radio. I gave him the thumbs up and then scooted in front while he hung back. It felt great. We were in the flow.

Root Stew

“Hi Frankie,” I said, when he saw me from over in the dark corner of the bar.

“This is so amazing!” and Frankie looked truly amazed. “Have a drink!”

“I can't, Frankie. I'm driving. I'm on my way out to Woody Spit.”

“Just one!” he said, “Bartender!”

“Fruit juice,” I called out, “Cranberry.”

“Spike it, Joe.”

“No, Really, Joe,” I said. “just the juice.” I sat down next to Frankie Dog and gave him my best comradely smile.

"This is so amazing," Frankie said again, but this time he looked at me hazily.

"I've got to talk to you Frankie. About Bonnie Bimbo."

"I love that woman, Jack!" And now Frankie looked near tears. "What am I going to do if she loses her job? I need to have her near me."

"She's not losing her job," I said to him firmly. "I've talked to Tobias Turtle. He's not firing either of you."

"Me?" Joe said, "He was never going to fire me! It was Bonnie!"

"You both broke the rules, Joe. You broke his 'no hanky-panky' rule. It's in your contract. Plus it looks like you got her pregnant, so everyone is going to know about it. Here's the deal. You can both keep working at the Egret Club but for the next three months you each get your pay docked twenty per cent for breaking your contract."

"That seems pretty harsh, Jack," And Frankie looked like he couldn't decide whether to cry or get mad.

"Your relationship with Bonnie is still on the new side. You don't want to rock the boat, Joe. Even getting drunk like this could get you in trouble with Bonnie. She's been cleaning up her act lately. Right now, while you're drinking, she's been doing aerobics. I just called her. She's OK with the pay cut." I let him look in his drink for a while. Meanwhile, I checked out all the seafaring paraphernalia on the walls. This bottom room just had the small bar and one little alcove, currently occupied by a couple of large Hens. I wondered why they bothered with such a small bar down here. Every level, going down, was smaller than the level above - always a sure sign that a Beastburg eaterie is really old.

Next to where Frankie sat was a hatch built into the wall. I could see a bit of the kitchen through the hole. Someone put a plate of food on the shelf in the hatch and the shelf started floating upwards, until I could see from the moving cable that it was a dumb waiter.

"What was that going up?" I asked the Beaver who was tending bar.

"Root stew," he said.

"It looks good. I'll have some."

It struck me that this Diving Bell pub had been around a very long time. Everything seemed genuinely old. Here I was down an old hole on the edge of Beastburg, near the Ferry Docks, but surrounded by big hotels and only half a mile from all the skyscrapers of the financial district. And yet this dingy establishment had somehow survived down the years, still a home for sad drunks and still cooking up Root Stew. Survived but not prospered. Over the years somehow the throbbing city growing all around it had got to this place and drained the personality out of it. There was deadness in the air and I had an urge to get out fast and drive to Woody Spit. As soon as I had my root stew.

"Here's your root stew," said the Beaver. It smelled pretty good.

"Where is she Jack?" said Joe, coming out of his trance.

"She's probably still at Bunnyhop."

"OK, Jack," and Joe gave me quite a serious look, "I'm going to play this your way. Maybe I'd better have a cup of coffee. A strong cup."

BR142 Jilly Dresses

I called Jilly and told her that I'd been delayed getting out to Woody Spit and she sounded relieved.

"Maybe you'd better come straight up here. We're having a crisis with old Tobias Turtle. It looks like Bonnie Bimbo is out and maybe Frankie Dog, too. Frankie might have got her pregnant."

"OK," I said. "I'll be right up."

This time there wasn't any traffic at all. I was pulling into the tiny parking lot behind the Egret Club in less than five minutes. I found Jilly alone upstairs in her dressing room.

"Where is everyone," I said, after I'd kissed her and we'd canoodled a little.

"Bonnie and Frankie went out to a restaurant. It seems the first sign that Bonnie was pregnant was her wanting exotic Dogfood."

"Is it for sure?"

"Not yet," said Jilly, "They've taken the home test but those things are notoriously unreliable for Bitches. Her hormones might just be all over the place."

"So what does it all mean?" I wasn't sure about the big deal of it all. "Are they going to get hitched or something?"

"Tobias says he is going to fire her. He says nobody wants to listen to a wannabe mommy singing torch songs."

"I'll talk to him," I said, "Where is he?"

"Down in his hole," said Jilly. "Thanks, Jack. I really appreciate this. I really need Bonnie here so I can get weekends off."

I took the lift down to the sub-basement and knocked on the office door. Then I waited a long time. I mean a really long time. Finally I could hear him coming. There was some scraping around the door and the peep hole glittered white. Then the door swung inwards. I waited long enough for Tobias to get out of the way and then I went in and sat across the desk from him. I looked at a magazine on a side table while Tobias hoised himself up onto his leather platform. He doesn't like to be looked at when he's in motion. The whole place is a dump down there and I didn't want to be seen looking around at his stuff, either. When he was ready he spoke up.

"Well?" he said.

"I hear you want to fire Bonnie Bimbo."

"So?" he said.

"You don't want to do that," I told him.

After about a minute he replied, "Why not?"

"No one is going to believe that Frankie will be faithful to her. His suits won't be rumpled for the next few weeks but then everyone will start looking to see who he has his eye on. He'll rumple up. Bonnie is going to be a very interesting figure through the whole process."

"I don't care anymore," said Tobias, and he really did look weary. But he must be pushing two hundred now so it might just be signs of early old age. "I'm sick of all the drama and they both know the rules. No hanky panky amongst the staff. I take the whole thing as an insult."

"They do very well and before the current crew you weren't exactly cramming them in. It's healthy now. And Jilly might walk, if you fire Bonnie, and Frankie will definitely walk. Take my advice and swallow this one. It will be better for you."

It took so long for Tobias to gather his thoughts that I went back to reading his magazine, Weekly Showlifters. Finally he poked his head out a little further and I knew the old Turtle was ready to finish this up.

"OK," Tobias said, and now he really did sound weary. "But for three months I'm docking both their wages twenty per cent. They know the rules."

"Fine," I said. "That's fair. I'll give them the word."

"Thanks," said Tobias, pulling in his head, and that was that.

BR143 Tobias's Desk

BR110 Jack's Idea

I woke up with a start in Bridget Beaver's living room, lying on the sofa, and the several Blue Tits who had been standing around on my stomach while I slept went flying off in a flutter. Bridget Beaver was sitting there next to me.

“Where am I?” I asked, although I knew perfectly well where I was. I just didn't for the moment remember how I got there.

“The Fox family have decamped to a hotel,” said Bridget, “The sun has gone down and you have been napping for over an hour. You must have been exhausted.”

I lay back down and stared at the ceiling. I was in the process of having some sort of realization, maybe starting in my sleep. Unfortunately, I had no idea what it was. I felt it floating in front of me in a sort of haze, a new understanding, a New Idea, and yet I didn't seem to know much about it. It could be anything. However there it was, inside me, and even the ceiling I was looking at looked somehow different.

I tried to search my dreams for a clue, though I had no certain memory of dreaming. Bridget sat very quiet, as if she knew that I was reaching around for something in my mind, with only the sound of her knitting needles and the Blue Tits shuffling about to break the silence. And there was still a bit of rain on the window. But no traffic noises.

I waited for the cloud to clear and for the the New Idea to reveal itself. I now felt sure that it was a New Idea that was in the cloud. I was having a New Idea! I felt that very clearly and a thrill of excitement shot through me. But was the idea? I could feel it's nearness but I still had no idea what department of life it had to do with. But the sense of revelation was absolute, though clouded and hidden, hovering right there in front of me.

Suddenly the word “Hoverhopper” came into my head. My new Jackster car that I have been trying to get to make short hops in traffic... what if I could get it to hover as well as hop? A lot of the 'hopping' problems would be made easier for us to solve. Maybe if we had a second central engine, to be run off the same two-pedal power chain, we could manage the hovering aspect with tiny, instantaneous up and down thrusts.

I closed my eyes and breathed more easily. What a great idea! The Hoverhopper! Everyone at the factory would be happy about it. All the nervous worries about having cars that hop would disappear!

I opened my eyes again. The cloud of the New Idea was still in front of me. The Hoverhopper was all very well but it was just an idea that had happened to come to me as I faced the real metaphoric cloud of some hidden New Idea that I had woken up to. Whatever that New Idea might be it was still there in front of me. Future revelation was a possibility that I was going to have to live with. I knew something and yet I didn't know it.

“I'd better call Jilly,” I said to Bridget as I sat up. “I was supposed to be out at Woody Spit by now.”

Bridget's Birds

I walked up the steps rehearsing what I was going to say to Bridget Beaver when she opened the door.

"Hi Bridget, I was just passing by and I got stuck in traffic and thought I'd drop in and get out of the rain." But before I had fully made my plans the door opened and Bridget was standing there.

"Hi Jack," she said to me, "A little bird told me you were in the neighbourhood and I hoped you'd get out of that traffic jam and come up to us for a visit. Come on in and meet my guests."

Without any more ado she turned and led me up the wide stairway to her studio. I just had time to peek into the door to her tidy little living room as I went up. Bridget is so smooth and agile in her movements that it is easy to forget that she is getting on. She was at the top before me and turning to say something to someone in the main part of the studio.

When I got to the top and looked around it took me a moment to orient myself. At the back, near where I was standing at the top of the stairs, was a long tabletop under narrow windows, all of them open, with two sinks built in, one of them more like a bathtub. It looked like dishes were being washed in the other one and I noticed that Bridget was wearing an apron. In the main part of the room, under the high windows, a big table was being used as a dining table and a family of Foxes looked like they were just finishing lunch. On the far wall there was a fireplace with a log fire burning. And on all the walls were large paintings of birds (mostly Blue Tits), some looking like they were still being worked on. All around the edges of the studio were pots of paints and pencil sketches of birds on the floor.

What made it hard to focus, however, were the birds themselves. The room looked like a convention of Blue Tits. All the way from the sink over to the big window at the front the birds were perched everywhere. The only place that they were avoiding was the table with the family of Foxes in the centre.

"Jack, I'd like you to meet Edmund Fox, the great Bird photographer. And this is his wife, Mandy, and the three little Foxes," and Bridget led me over to the table. Edmund didn't stand up and I just nodded to him and murmured something. He looked at me with a glazed expression that I attributed to being surrounded by so many Blue Tits. His wife, Mandy Fox, hardly looked at me. In fact she was gazing out the big window, staring at the rain and humming. The two young boys were playing idly with palm-games and in the gloom of the rainy day their games shown a flickering light on their faces. They didn't look up at me at all. Their plump older sister gave me a bored glance as she worked her way through a bag of Salty Snax.

"The Fox family just drove up from the South Coast," said Bridget, "and they all had a long, tiring trip."

They looked to me as if they hadn't yet got out of the car. For all the world they could still be on their trip wheeling along on their way up from the South Coast.

There was a whistle behind us and Bridget and I turned to see a couple of Bluebirds standing in the window. "Bridget," one of the Bluebirds called out, "A new song just came in on the computer at the Birdbank. We can sing it to you!"

"Lovely," said Bridget. "Come along Jack, and we'll listen."

While Bridget resumed washing the dishes I stood near her and we listened to the wet and dripping Bluebirds singing the new song. It was called "I Can't Give You Anything But Love" and it had an immediately catchy tune. As they sang the rain was clearing behind them and the sky brightened. The whole event (the song, the birds, the weather) made me feel very emotional. It was like an absurd highpoint from some very sweet family film.

Bridget's Alley

I pulled out of my parking space and another car instantly took my place. The rain came down, the traffic locked up and I was stuck there on that tight street watching the world go by, umbrellas everywhere and nobody looking very happy. I put the radio on and listened to Fatty Walrus singing a lush version of Georgia. The heat was on in the car and I nodded off for a second. I opened the window a crack and turned off the heat. This was ridiculous.

Looking two stuck cars ahead of me I saw the entrance to Seaman's Alley. Technically, it was a dead end but there was a service entrance to the Orbital Hotel at the back and from there I could get out onto the Drive. When the traffic pulled up to the light I headed into the alley and sped down to the open area at the back. The service entrance on the other end was blocked by a big truck. I was stuck. I pulled in and parked next to three other cars, under the long wooden stairs that goes up to the house where Bridget Beaver has her studio.

I'd never been here on my own but I've visited Bridget with Professor Hat several times. I could go up the steps right now and knock on the door at the top and she'd let me in and I could hang out there until the traffic cleared. Or I could sit here in my car and turn the heat and the radio on and go to sleep. But then maybe Bridget Beaver might come down the steps and see that I was parked in front of her house and wasn't bothering to visit her. She might be offended or hurt. Right this minute I was visible from her windows.

How many times in my life have I found myself in this odd situation? Too many.

Bridget Beaver is a nice enough lady and I admire her work as the chief researcher of the Saverscreen Ghosties phenomenon. That song I was just listening to, Georgia, would not have been on the radio if it wasn't for Bridget's work collecting these strange alien communications and making them seem acceptable to singers and song publishers. But she is an odd combination of intense and scatty and I've never been completely comfortable with her. Also, she always has hangers-on who seem to me to deserve the name the world has given them, Saverscreen Crazies.

The trouble is, I already know what will happen. If I walk up those steps I will establish an independent relationship with Bridget Beaver and begin to accept her and her friends into my life in a new way. If I drop in on her now she will feel licensed to drop in on me. Intimacy is what will happen, unplanned intimacy.

But how can we plan everything? Sometimes folks just get dealt to you like a hand of cards and you just have to do your best with them. The rain was letting up. Maybe I should turn the car around and go back out the alley. Or maybe I should get out of the car and walk up the steps.

I got out of the car.

Mole Brother Books

The rain was still pelting down and I was stuck in traffic on one of the little streets below the Theatre District in the old part of Beastburg. I went through a familiar transition from being sorry to leave Jilly and Jazlin behind me to feeling happy to have time to myself. And I faced a day with nothing more onerous than a drive out to Woody Spit. I was really on my own now. If there wasn't a cloud of health concern floating over me I would have said I was positively elated. Plus the pelting rain was a little disturbing.

The traffic wasn't moving and odd city animals were swarming around me on the tiny slips of pavement. Cars honked and my windshield wipers were whipping anxiously back and forth in front of me. Without warning a car parked tight against the curb pulled out just in front of me and I was tempted to honk at him. But then I noticed the sign above the window just behind where he'd been parked. "Mole Brothers Books," the sign said and I remembered the Mufeena Grizzly book I had been reading last night at Ella's. If I wanted to I could zip in and buy myself a copy. I whipped my Jackster into the space and paid for the parking on my teleportal.

Just crossing the pavement to the door got me soaked. The long shop was full of steaming animals hiding out from the rain, many of them standing and watching it pour down out the window. Hiram Mole was at the counter, serving next to an attractive Duck, and he recognized me from years back.

"Mr. Rabbit," he said.

And I said, "Jack."

"Mr. Rabbit," he said again. From time immemorial we always go through this.

"Do you have The Philanthropist Murders by Mufeena Grizzly?"

"I believe we might have it down in the bottom basement," he said, "in the Trash department. I'll lead the way," and he was off like a shot. I followed him down the wide circular staircase, round and round, feeling waves of heat coming up the stairwell from way down in the bottom basement.

Lots of animals hate the lower regions of Bear Brothers but I always feel strangely comforted there. Hiram hurried ahead, weaving past climbing customers, and at the bottom I could see him pulling a ladder across and starting to climb up to the top shelves. His older brother, Vosper, was sitting in a rocking chair by the big coal furnace which dominates the middle of the room, reading. I stopped on the landing to check out the over-sized books arrayed there and noticed a title, "Diseases of the Large Rabbit," and started to pull it from the shelf before thinking better of it. I didn't need to go down that road. The pictures alone would depress me.

"I found it!" called Hiram, and I went down and joined him by his ladder.

"This really is trash," he said, "You won't enjoy it."

"I started it last night," I told him, "and I was getting a lot of pleasure from the mystery of it."

"I really shouldn't tell you," Hiram said, "But the Variegated Fairywren did it," and he gave me his inscrutable Moley smile.

"I'll buy it anyway," I said.

As I got back in my car it struck me that the whole thing was a typical Mole Brothers experience.

BR088 Late For Rehearsal

Jilly and Jazlin and I squeezed into the Jackster and were waved off by Don and Ella. I puttered down Frognal and then zipped over to Orbital Drive where we picked up speed, taking advantage of the special speed limit for pedal-powered cars. Tugboat Alley and Liner Row were both full and the sea was choppy. There weren't any boats visible out to sea. Low, dark clouds were banked overhead and at the Ferry Docks it started raining hard. By the time we turned off on Park Street West it felt like a real storm.

I drove down Oxtail and turned into the warren of streets around the Theatre District. Traffic was fanning out from Central Circle and all the tiny streets were clogged. Jilly was getting nervous as she was late for a rehearsal and she knew the whole band was waiting for her to get there. Her creepy boss, Tobias Turtle, always takes an interest in rehearsals and she knew he'd be there. I'd held things up at Ella's, making phone calls. I had to get out of various meetings planned for today at the Jackster Plant and I set up for going to Woody Spit for a couple of days.

Jilly struggled to pack up and put on her cagepack while leaning forward in her seat with the windows steaming up. Jazlin flew around nervously, outside of the cagepack. I found myself getting tense again, not that I was feeling too weird or anything. Not like yesterday. Just tense with the traffic and all the action in the car.

Finally I pullled up in front of the Egret Club. Jazlin Fly hopped into the cagepack and I sealed it as Jilly opened the door. A quick kiss and she was out of the car and striding under the blue awning with the giant plastic Egret on top of it. Looking at her from behind she suddenly looked very sexy and I had a pang of lonliness, even while I watched her going away. Jilly has my favorite walk and everything about her presence looks beautiful to me and painfully familiar. There she was with Jazlin (peeking back at me from the top of the cagepack), my dear little family, walking away from me in the rain under the awning and through the double doors of the Egret Club.

I was on my own.