Stuffed by Brian M. Wiprud Read Free Book Online Page B

this case was a black-market operation that sold exotics for parts. The DEC had an opening for someone who could make big cats purr instead of devour and was relatively fearless around dangerous animals. So once the lions had new homes, they signed him up.
    We were meeting at a Mexican place over on Washington Street, which is walking distance from my place. I’d picked up my zebra pelts and found them to be relatively clean—Jim Fowler and Sir Edmund Hillary must have used their plates. Made my penguin delivery and duly admonished the penguin wrangler to keep his beasts’ beaks away from my squad. He showed me that his birds were suitably contained, penned up in a chicken-wire enclosure at one end of the set. They jostled and squawked like a bunch of wobbly bowling pins. I would have thought they were cute if they weren’t crowded at the end of the cage closest to my birds, casting their beady eyes at the nearest box. They must have picked up the scent. You could see the little bastards already gleeful about the prospect of shredding Doc, Dopey, and Grumpy.
    Arrived home, no messages from the Elks. Hoped they hadn’t found another source.
    As I walked down Washington Street, I wondered how this latest development in my life bode for my burgeoning midlife crisis. I felt like I was against the ropes. At least before the sacking of Garth’s Castle, things were fine. Not great, but fine. Now things were crappy, which isn’t great and isn’t even fine. A setback or a sign of things to come?
    Pete is not your strapping lion tamer of lore, the one with the black handlebar mustache, but a small, hairy sinewy guy with a red handlebar mustache, small wire specs, and thin, frizzy hair. You can see he’s one of those guys who has to try to figure out where his chest hair and beard begin and end. Pete chose to shave to the edge of his T-shirt collar. In keeping with his character, it was always a little dangerous visiting with Pete. Ever since he roped me into that chop-shop sting operation, he’d somehow gotten the impression I was a fellow thrill-seeker. He specializes in going undercover for the feds, often as a redneck but on occasion as a Dutch trader, a befezzed Turk, or an Australian magnate. And no matter how preposterous the ruse, he always manages to keep a straight face and avoid getting drilled by the humorless folk on the other side of the law. Well, so far.
    We sat in a booth in the back that had pictures of Ernest Borgnine covering the walls. Why, you ask? Because it was the Ernest Borgnine Memorial Booth at my local Mexican restaurant. That’s New York for you.
    “Y’gotta try this, Garth.” Pete held out the animal perched on his arm. I tried to make my recoil look like I was hailing the waitress.
    “Better box that critter before someone freaks out.” I glanced at Borgnine as the lead in
Marty,
and he looked disapproving. The waitress approached, and Pete put the arm with the critter under the table.
    “W-we’re ready to order,” I stammered.
    “Black beans and rice for me.” Pete beamed. “And a shot of tequila, a can of Blue Ribbon, and a slice of peach pie with whipped cream.”
    “Beef burrito and a Corona. No fruit.”
    “He’ll have a tequila too, won’t you?”
    “Well . . .” I looked at Borgnine as McHale, and he seemed to be urging me to have one.
    “Give him a tequila.” Pete gave her a wink. “He needs one.”
    As the waitress retreated, Pete brought his arm back up onto the table and said, “Uh-oh.” His arm was empty, his pet gone. Did I mention Pete collects venomous animals?
    My reaction to the escaped pet was immediate and much to Pete’s amusement. Several other diners came to help me off the floor and right the chair I’d tripped over in my haste to exit the booth.
    “Don’t worry, Maddy’s back in the box.” Pete giggled like someone who’d just fooled me with a joy-buzzer handshake. Once I was seated again, he insisted on giving me a last look at his humongous