//------------------------------// // Figure 1: CB Radio // Story: Disco Inferno // by McPoodle //------------------------------// Disco Inferno by McPoodle Figure 1: CB Radio The crunch of gravel under tires quietly announced the return of undercover police officers Gloomfeld and Gruekin to the winter quarters of the Pagliacci Brothers Family Circus, located a dozen miles outside the city of Passaic, New Jersey. The hour was late, and the year was young. A few dirty lumps of snow were still visible in the shadows. Finding an out-of-the way spot between the main tent and a wire fence, the green Gran Torino rolled to a halt, the sound of its approach muffled by the sounds of an out-of-tune calliope playing from within the tent. Inside the car, the driver, Harry Gloomfeld, grabbed a battered tan satchel from the back seat and began flipping through the papers and photograph inside. Beside him, Aramus Gruekin sat quietly, staring straight ahead with his arms crossed. Gloomfeld sighed. “Alright Aramus,” he addressed his partner without looking at him, “go ahead and say it before you blow a gasket or something.” Gruekin remained staring straight ahead. “We both know this is a dead end, Harry,” he said finally. “Nothing else we’ve done has managed to stick, and this is far and away the most-ridiculous accusation by far. If the Chief ever finds out about this—” “The Chief is going to find out about this,” Gloomfeld interrupted, “on the day when we finally expose Frankie Scarpino’s ties to the Coragglio syndicate once and for all.” He patted the satchel lovingly. “And this here is guaranteed to blow the truth wide open!” “Blow the truth wide open?” “Look, just let me do the talking, alright?” Gruekin shrugged, which served as the signal for the two men to exit their warm vehicle into the cold night air. Pulling their coats around them, they slowly made their way around the tent, staying in the shadows. From the other side of the canvas, they could hear the sounds of cans and bottles being thrown around, as well as a lot of yelling. “That’s the fifth queen you’ve pulled from that deck. The fifth queen!” This was rather typical of the yelling. From a nearby trailer, a record player tried vainly to drown out the other sounds: Whether you’re a brother Or whether you're a mother, You're stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive. Feel the city breakin’ And everybody shakin’ And we’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive. “Aramus, stop strutting,” Harry said with a sigh. The two men walked past an open stable door before reaching the small trailer home that was parked beside it. Unseen by them, a large pair of inquisitive blue eyes peered out at them from the stable, and followed their progress. “The truth may never be known for sure,” said the televised voice of Leonard Nimoy over the sound of repeated knocking at the door. “Lost civilizations. Extraterrestrials. Myths and monsters. Missing persons. Magic and witchcraft. Unexplained phenomena. ‘In Search Of...’ cameras are traveling the world, seeking out these great mysteries. This program was the result of the work of scientists, researchers and a group of highly-skilled technicians.” Only once he had heard these final words did William Martin get up and answer the door. “How many times do I have to tell you that Antonia is not...” he started to say before seeing the two men before him: one of them in a white shirt, cream vest and suit, navy blue tie and straight brown hair under a porkpie gray hat with a Hawaiian-style band around it, and the other in a sky blue shirt, blue suit, a loosened gray tie and curly brown hair. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he addressed them acidly in his British accent, “I thought you were somebody else, two people I have never met before. Are you sure you’re not at the wrong address?” “No, this is the place,” Gloomfeld said arrogantly. “We need a little more of your help.” “Haven’t I done enough?” Martin asked with a hint of desperation. “Antonia’s becoming suspicious. If word gets back to her brother...?” “Relax!” Gloomfeld replied. “I just have a few questions, and then we’ll be out of your hair, I promise! Now would you like to invite us in, or would you prefer we stand out here on your porch, where we might attract some unwanted attention?” With a sigh, Martin moved aside and allowed the two men to walk inside. & & & With the ease of those who had performed this exact ritual several times before, the two undercover officers made their way to the cramped kitchen of the trailer, and sat down at the table. Martin made them some tea, interrupted when the theme from Sanford and Son started blaring from the television and he had to race over to the living room to turn it off. “Stupid American television,” he muttered to himself as he reentered the kitchen. “Wasn’t that particular ‘stupid American’ show based on an equally stupid British show?” Gruekin asked with a grin. “Well...yes,” said Martin reluctantly as he sat down. “I thought when I came to this country that I could get away from that sort of pan-European idiocy. But the shows...and the music...followed me over the Pond.” He attached a particularly vicious tone to his reference to disco. “Now then,” he said, changing the subject, “what do you need to know this time?” Gloomfeld picked up the satchel from his feet and began to rifle through it. “You know, in all the time we’ve been talking with you about this circus, I never asked you anything about what you do around here.” “Well, I help Antonia with the pony rides,” Martin answered. “She mostly takes care of the animals, and I mostly sell the tickets and fix the carousel when it breaks down.” “I was able to find out quite a bit about your animals by poking around City Hall,” said Gloomfeld, pulling a pile of papers out of the satchel. “Interesting thing about ponies I found out: like people, they’ve got a paper trail following them. You’ve got to file a paper when a pony is born, when it dies, when it changes ownership, and every time it enters and leaves the country. I’ve got copies here of all the paperwork on your twelve ponies.” “Why twelve, by the way?” interrupted Gruekin. “That carousel they walk around in only has places for eight.” “Well, ponies can be temperamental,” answered Martin, “and they get injured and tired pretty easily. We’ve found over the years that an even dozen is the best number to ensure that we can get eight on the carousel most days.” “Now let’s see,” Gloomfeld said, pulling down two or three papers at a time, “we have Moonbeam, Sundance, Copper, Cherokee, Turtle, Ceiling Tile—” “‘Ceiling Tile’?” Gruekin repeated incredulously, leaning over to be sure that that his partner got the name right. Martin sighed. “That was the previous owner’s idea of a joke,” he explained. “But what does it mean?” Gruekin asked. Martin rolled his eyes in exasperation. “You know those ceiling tiles in office buildings, the ones with those little black holes in them? Well, Ceiling Tile the pony is the same pale gray in color, and his coat tends to get spattered all over when he—” “Do not finish that sentence!” interrupted Gloomfeld. Martin shrugged. “He’s not very bright.” “How can you tell?” asked Gruekin. “Aren’t ponies just dumb animals?” “They’re brighter than most dogs, if you raise them correctly. And Antonia practically treats ours like children.” Martin pursed his lips after saying that, and looked away from the policemen for a few seconds. “Let me finish this list,” said Gloomfeld with some annoyance. “Ceiling Tile, Flicka…really? you’ve got a ‘Flicka’?…Damsel, Romeo, Dusty, and finally we get to the really interesting one...Rarity.” He punctuated the revelation of this name by slapping a black and white photograph onto the table. The photo showed Gruekin kneeling down beside a pure white pony with a dark-colored mane shaped into a spiraling ribbon of hair. The photo showed the pony using a hoof to hold up the cuff of the officer’s tartan smoking jacket. The creature had an expression on its face that could only be described as horror. Despite knowing that it was coming, Martin still flinched slightly on hearing the name. “Very interesting case here, this Rarity,” said Gloomfeld, leaning in for the kill. “Registered only a few days ago, yet clearly a young adult. Where are her birth papers? Her breeding record? If she was imported, where are her immunization records? From what I understand, you’re not supposed to be allowed to expose the public to a pony without this documentation. And yet, this one pony has a full set of waivers, signed by former Governor Cahill himself. I’m willing to bet, though, that the Governor never remembers signing those particular waivers.” He suddenly stood up and pointed at his host. “Admit it, Martin!” he cried. “The Coragglio Mob is tied to this circus! They’re using it to launder their ill-gotten gains...through ponies!” Martin looked up at him sadly, doing nothing but blinking his eyes. After nearly a minute, Gloomfeld sighed and sat back down. “You know,” Martin said, “that cock-and-bull explanation would actually make sense, compared to what really happened.” He got up himself and started walking towards the door. “There’s no possible chance that you’ll believe me,” he said as he opened a closet and put on a coat, “but if I show you, you’ll hopefully conclude that I am merely deluded instead of insane.” The two officers put on their own coats, and followed Martin out the front door. & & & “To start with,” said Martin as he locked the door, “we were short one pony. Buttercup II,”—the man sniffed back a tear—“the best damn pony a man could ever know. We...we lost her, rather suddenly. Then came the night of January 17th—” “1977?” asked Gloomfeld, who was taking notes. “No, ‘78, less than a week ago,” Martin continued. “Antonia was out of town. I was awakened by a bright flash outside my bedroom window, from the general direction of the stable.” He pointed at the window of the trailer, then swept his arm over to show that it had line of sight to the neighboring stable. “I got dressed, and walked outside. I could hear the sounds of the ponies being upset, and also a man’s voice talking from inside the stable. It was nobody I’ve ever heard before.” “Just one voice?” asked Gloomfeld. “That’s right, one voice. I never heard anybody answer him. At first, I couldn’t make out what the man was saying. I decided to sneak up to the stable to see if I could catch whoever it was that was messing with our ponies.” And this is exactly what the three men were doing at this point, walking slowly from the trailer to the stable. “I was about...here, when I saw two fainter flashes of light from inside the stable, one right after the other. They looked like flashbulbs going off, and they were accompanied by these faint clicks, also like bulbs going off. The voice said something before each flash.” “What did it say?” prompted Gloomfeld. “I, err, didn’t hear him really clearly. I’m sure I got the words wrong,” Martin said sheepishly. “Well, what did it sound like he said? Maybe we can figure out what he really said later.” “It sounded like he said ‘no talking’ and ‘no magic’.” Gloomfeld repeated the two phrases as he wrote them down. Martin looked like he expected to get mocked, especially for that ‘magic’ line, but the plainclothes officers remained professional. The men reached the side-door of the stable. “I unlocked this door,” Martin said, demonstrating, “and I took a look inside.” The two policemen peered over Martin’s shoulder to get a view of the layout of the stable. There was a big open space to the left of the door, with a walkway leading to the right between two rows of pony stalls. Most of the ponies were awake, and they were already at the front of their stalls, watching the unfamiliar humans with wary eyes. Standing in the very front stall, directly across from the three men, was Rarity. The dark mane from the monochrome photo turned out to be a startling deep purple color, and her eyes were a vivid blue. One hoof was hooked over a slat of the door, like she had just pulled it shut. “I saw this pony for the first time,” Martin said, gesturing at Rarity, “standing out there in the main area. There were no people to be seen, and as you can see, from this spot it’s pretty hard for anybody to hide or sneak out without me noticing.” “The mystery man could have hid in one of the stalls,” Gloomfeld suggested. “I doubt that very much,” said Martin. “These ponies do not take well to strangers. The only reason they are not panicking over you two right now is because I’m with you and they feel safe in their stalls.” He turned to the wall and picked up a pitchfork. “I picked this up and called out for the miscreant to reveal himself. “‘I’m afraid you’ve got me, fair and square,’ the voice answered. I turned, to see that it was coming from that machine, which had never been in the stable before.” Gloomfeld and Gruekin walked over to examine a Citizen’s Band radio that was sitting on a small table on the facing wall next to Rarity’s stall. It was a small unit, meant to be mounted under the dash of a pickup truck, but instead plugged into the lone outlet in the wall. A whip antenna was bolted to one side, and a standard CB microphone was clipped to the other; the unit was flanked by a pair of expensive stereo speakers, surely overkill under the circumstances. The two men had minimal experience with CB radios per se, but that was more than made up for by their knowledge of police radios. They saw that the unit was currently switched on, but saw nothing else unusual about it. Gruekin turned it around and started writing down the serial number. “Don’t bother,” Martin said. “Chuckles already tried chasing that down. Governor Cahill apparently also bought that unit during his time in office.” Gruekin tried to imagine the staid ex-governor ever using the phrase “ten-four, good buddy,” and nearly broke down in laughter. “Are you sure coming out of this radio was the same voice you heard outside the stable?” asked Gloomfeld. “Positive,” said Martin. “Can you describe it to me?” “It was a somewhat deep voice, with a local accent. And it was overflowing with attitude. It was the voice of a man who could have anything he wanted. A man of leisure who chose to spend his time manipulating and torturing others for his own sick amusement.” Gloomfeld looked up from his notepad at the seething face of Martin. “I take it you’ve had experience with the type,” he said cautiously. “I used to work for a man who must have been this voice’s British cousin. He’s the reason I can never return to England again.” “Wow,” said Gruekin. “Just out of curiosity, who was this ex-boss of yours? Did he have a title? Was he rich and powerful?” “Yes and yes to your two last questions, which is precisely why I am legally barred from revealing his name without a court order,” Martin said sourly. “And then what happened?” asked Gloomfeld after finishing his note-taking. “With the voice, that is.” “I walked up to the machine and said, ‘Who are you?’ and the voice replied—” “Hold on,” said Gloomfeld. “Did you use the microphone?” “No,” said Martin with a grin. “I was wondering if you’d catch that. At the time, I did not know how these radios worked. Later, after I told the story to Chuckles, he tinkered around, and found a second microphone hidden in one of the speakers. ‘Voice activated’ I think he called it.” “Chuckles,” Gloomfeld said as he continued taking notes. “That’s a clown’s name, right?” “No, it belongs to Chuckles the undertaker,” Martin said with a straight face. “Of course it’s a clown’s name!” “We should probably get his opinion on all of this, seeing as he appears to be good with both record tracking and electronics.” “Not going to happen,” Martin said flatly. “Chuckles and authority figures do not go well together.” “Well that’s a rather broad statement,” Gruekin protested. “I’m sure if we met him—” “Tell me, Office Gruekin, in all of the time that you’ve been touring this circus, both openly and sneaking around, have you ever seen our clown?” “Well, now that you mention it...” “And you’re never going to see him, either,” Martin said. “That man’s got a sixth sense when it comes to cops. He’s the one who told me who you two really were. In fact, I probably shouldn’t have told you two about him at all—he’s probably going to make me buy him a whole stack of records before he’ll agree to fix my TV the next time it goes on the blink.” “So, getting back to this ‘secret microphone’,” Gruekin said with a roll of his eyes, “I do hope that you or this clown friend of yours thought of deactivating it.” Martin reached back and picked up a loose wire coming out of the right speaker. “It’s unplugged now,” he said. “I can plug it back in anytime I’d like.” “The voice answered you...” Gloomfeld prompted. “Yes, I asked who it was, and it responded with the words ‘I am nobody of consequence,’ an answer dripping with amusement at how obviously false it was. ‘I represent however a rich and influential fashion mogul that wishes to remain anonymous. This pony has been very naughty, and as a result, I am offering it to you to be your property. You are free to do anything you please with it.’ I noticed the pony flinch at these words.” Martin walked over to Rarity’s stall. “That’s when I first got a good look at it. She’s a very unusual pony, as you’ve already noticed. An abnormally large head, with such a smooth, rounded cranium, and there’s definitely something...off, about the eyes. And that white coat—this was obviously an animal that had been groomed on a near-constant basis. And then finally there’s the mane! On a human head, this style would have taken hours a day to keep in shape. Antonia’s been doing her best to maintain it, but it’s a losing battle, especially once that pony starts on the carousel. In fact, my wife’s been coming up with every excuse imaginable to keep Rarity from ever going on that carousel, but she’s going to have to go out there sooner or later.” The pony Rarity shrunk back from Martin’s words. “I have no idea what kind of dye was used to make it that color, only that it’s a lot better than anything I’ve seen Julia use. To send this pedigreed, pampered pony here, an animal who must have consumed more dollars in daily maintenance than the annual Gross Domestic Income of a small African nation! Well, she must have been a naughty pony indeed.” Martin walked back, past the radio to a locked trunk, followed by the officers. “But even if I did wish to treat this newcomer the same way as my other ponies,” he continued, “that didn’t mean that I was willing to do it on my own dollar. I therefore demanded remuneration. “The voice laughed. ‘Yes, you certainly should get something to repay you for putting up with her. Alright, how does $200,000 sound?’ “My eyes boggled. ‘Yes,’ I finally managed to squeak out, ‘I think that sum would be sufficient.’ I was clearly dealing with a man with no sense of the value of money. “‘Very well,’ the voice said, ‘you will find the sum under the table.’” Martin reached into his shirt, pulling out a key strung on a chain around his neck. He used the key to unlock the trunk. “Now, I don’t expect you to believe this, but I swear I had a perfectly good view of the space under the table when I walked into the room, and there was nothing there at that time. Nevertheless, when I looked under that table this time, I found this.” From under a pile of blankets, Martin removed a large black satchel. Tied to one of the handles was a baggage tag for Northwest Orient Airlines, with the former owner of the satchel written on it in bold black marker: Property of D.B. Cooper Gruekin laughed quietly for a few seconds. “This guy’s a real joker, isn’t he?” Martin nodded. “I don’t get it,” said Gloomfeld. “D. B. Cooper was one of the first air pirates,” Gruekin replied. “He took over a Portland to Seattle flight in ’71, got two hundred grand in ransom, and made a parachute jump into the woods. He and his money were never found.” “So the voice is D. B. Cooper?” asked Gloomfeld. “No,” said Martin. “I consulted with Chuckles, who’s sort of an aficionado of the case. For one thing, the alias that the hijacker used was never ‘D. B. Cooper’, it was ‘Dan Cooper’. It was a reporter who mixed up the name afterwards. Second, if that was the actual bag with the ransom money, then it certainly wouldn’t have a baggage tag on it. And third,”—Martin opened the bag and pulled out a bundle of hundred-dollar bills,”—this money was still a bit damp and burnt at the edges, just as you’d expect Cooper’s money to be considering the popular theory that he drowned in Lake Merwin, but why would the money still be wet seven years later? In fact, it seems impossible that these bills could be in such relatively good shape after what they must have gone through.” “So they’re fakes,” said Gloomfeld. “Yes, but...they don’t appear to be counterfeit,” said Martin, “and the serial numbers are all on the list the FBI made of the bills they were giving to Cooper. It’s like the bag was snatched out of Time just seconds after landing in that lake and supplied with a fake tag, just for a cheap joke at my expense. Oh, and he cheated me, by the way—not all of the $200,000 ransom is in there.” “I think I’d like to bring this bag in for analysis,” said Gloomfeld, a confused look on his face. “You might as well,” said Martin, handing it over. “There’s no way I would have been able to spend any of that without getting arrested—that would have been the punch line of this particular joke.” “Why didn’t you come forward with this before?” asked Gruekin. “Because nobody would have believed me,” Martin replied. & & & “So,” said Gruekin with a grin as he followed the bewildered Gloomfeld back to their car with the satchel containing nearly $200,000 in hijacked cash, “have we blown the truth wide open yet?” “Shut up, Aramus.”