As a child I couldn’t imagine ever harming a cat, or a hamster.  Everyone’s got their hang-ups, I guess.  These days I’ve put childish notions behind me and built a pretty good career for myself.  Sure, there were times when I thought about giving it up.  Sometimes you look into their beady eyes, and it’s like they are begging you to reconsider.

            “You can choose not to do this,” they seem to be saying, if they could indeed talk.  But really, I could no more choose to not follow through than they could choose to be someone else’s pet, in some other place, living some other life.

            It’s simple: you can, like I do, choose to live in the future.  In the future everything is settled.  Everything that will happen today has already happened tomorrow, and tomorrow is where a guy like me has to dwell.  I am known as Capybara, and I am a pet assassin.

            I had just finished liquidating a French terrier over in Sootville last week, when I found myself on the Devonair Memorial Bridge, heading back into Luxopolis to catch my kid brother’s wedding rehearsal.  It’s free to cross over into Sootville, but it costs five bucks to get out of there.  There’s some sort of joke in that.

            It was a regular job, no mess, no evidence that would lead back to me.  Most times it looks like an accident.  Lot of work goes into pulling that off, let me tell you. 

But I’ve had my close calls.  Luxopolis has one agent who specializes in murder-for-hire crimes: The Lynx.  The perfect undercover detective, The Lynx has caught every hitman in the city except one: Capybara.

Only eight of the twelve tollbooth lanes were open.  Three were cash lanes, and I always pay cash.  I pulled up to the middle lane just as surely as I always play the middle square in tic-tac-toe. I reached for my billfold and took out a ten note. 

A cashier I had never seen before stood there in his crisp blue polyester vest with a name tag that read “Carl”.  He was a pale and slightly built man, but sported an enormous afro and gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses.

“How’s it going, Carl?  You new here?” I asked.

            “Good afternoon.  Yes, sir.  Today is my first day,” he answered in a thin voice.

            I handed him the ten.  As he made change, I could hear the cash register ding like an old- fashioned dime store machine.  He reached out to hand me my five and I noticed a tiny diamond tattoo on the purlicue of his right hand. 

            “Diamond in the fold,” I whispered to myself, committing the detail to memory.

            “Excuse me?” the man asked.

            “Uh…I said have a nice day,” I offered.

He paused a moment, staring at me through his dark lenses.

“Have a nice day, sir,” he finally said and pressed the button to open the barrier.

I pulled through quickly.  Not too quickly, but not wasting time, either.  Something about that man had unnerved me.  I checked the rearview mirror and thought I noticed that now there were only two cash lanes open, although in the late afternoon sunlight it was difficult to be sure.

Diamond on his hand.  Was he a poker player?  It could mean anything.  But details like that are important.  In my line of work, it could spell the difference between capture and freedom.

One time, years ago, I was waiting for a stall in the bathroom of a club call The Sash.  As a man came out of one stall, I saw he was wearing a royal blue ascot and had onyx cufflinks.  I sat down to my business and noticed the tear pattern on the roll of toilet paper: he was left-handed.  Afterwards I spotted him ordering a martini, but noticed that he reached for his drink with his right hand.  Right away I knew it was One Hand Montoya in disguise. He’d been looking for me ever since I snuffed out his boss’s boa constrictor.  I cleared out.  No sense letting him figure out who I was.

            See?  It’s stuff like that; like the time I was at a grocery store and I noticed the way the stocker boy was laying in the bags of flour, like he’d never made of row of anything in his life. The lady selling papers at the corner of Bluebonnet and Main, she kept scratching the inside of her thumb with her middle fingernail.  You wouldn’t think details like that matter, but they do; you just never know when.

            I got to the rehearsal a few minutes early.  I hadn’t seen Jimmy in a few months; I figured we’d chat a bit.  It was one ritzy joint.  He had rented the ballroom on the ground floor of the Pelican Hotel, a five-star affair if there ever was one.

            He was getting hitched to the mayor’s granddaughter, so you can imagine the who’s-who cast that showed up for the rehearsal.  Everyone in it, plus a few dozen hangers-on were in attendance.  There was even a photographer from the Times.

            The practice went off without a hitch and was followed by a huge cocktail party, complete with a five-piece orchestra and a host of waiters.  I took it all in, wondering what the wedding reception would be like.

            “Mr. Stone?” came a clear voice behind me, as someone tapped my shoulder.

            I spun around to see a dazzling woman with red hair and deep blue eyes, wearing a black satin dress.

            “I’m Gideon Stone, yes.  Who might you be?” I answered her.

            “I’m Destiny Wallace with the Times,” she blurted quickly.  “With the mayor’s granddaughter getting married and so many of the town’s A-listers here, I thought I’d do a piece for the paper’s Society Page.  And here I find Gideon Stone, heir to Lapiz Industries himself.”

            “Madam, you knew the Stone family would be in attendance, I believe,” I stated to her tersely.  I waited for her countenance to deflate.  It didn’t.

            “Oh, okay.  Look, maybe I should say I was hoping Mr. Gideon Stone would be showing up for his little brother’s wedding to-do,” she confessed.

            “Really, madam?” I asked her, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the way the light from the chandeliers reflected in her red locks, or the way her dark violet lips framed every syllable.  She was alluring, to put it simply.

            We chatted for a bit, but it had been a long enough day.  I decided to leave.

            “Shall we dance?” she asked suddenly.

            “Really, Miss Wallace, I’m quite done in for the evening,” I protested.

          “You wouldn’t refuse a lady a dance, would you, Mr. Stone?” she challenged, with the loveliest pout on her lips.

            “Well, just one,” I acquiesced, as I took her hand and led her to the middle of the floor where several other couples were swaying and rocking.

            “I haven’t waltzed in a long time, Miss Wallace,” I confessed as we stepped and sometimes stumbled through the three-beat rhythms.

            “It’s quite alright, Mr. Stone.  A man in your line of work has little time to play.”

            “How would you know that, Miss Wallace?” I asked, puzzled by her comment.

            “I just mean, what with work and everything else you do, it must feel like you lead two lives.”  She smiled, her eyes drilling into mine.

            I felt a trickle of sweat start to form on the back of my neck.

            Just then, the best man decided to call for a toast by clinging a fork against his glass.  Ting-ting.  Ting-ting.  It sounded oddly like a cash register.

            Miss Wallace motioned to one of the waiters holding a tray with two champagne glasses left on it.  She lifted one and offered it to me.

            “Have a drink, Mr. Stone.  I’m sure the day has taken its toll on your nerves,” she said.

            Toll.

            I reached for the glass she was extending toward me and that’s when I saw it: a tiny diamond tattooed on the space between her thumb and her index finger.

            The Lynx.  It had to be!

            Never had I ever thought I would be face to face with him, in so public a space.  His disguise had been nearly perfect.

            I took the proffered glass and promptly smashed it on the floor.

            “I won’t be falling for that today!” I cried triumphantly.

            “Mr. Stone!” my adversary cried.  “What’s gotten into you?”

            “Gideon!  What’s the matter with you?” came Jimmy’s voice from a few feet away.

            People all around had turned their heads in dismay and murmurs and gasps could be heard from all sides.

            I quickly concluded that The Lynx would never blow his cover in a place like this.

            “Not everything is what it seems to be, ladies and gentleman,” I declared to the shocked crowd.  I reached for those red locks and yanked them toward me to remove the disguise.

            Only…they didn’t come off.  Instead, Miss Wallace let out a piercing scream.

            “Mr. Stone!” she wailed in obvious agony, her hair still tightly in my grip.

            “Unhand her, man!” a portly gentleman shouted at me while several others closed in around me to intervene.

            “Oh my,” I uttered, realizing my mistake.  “I’m terribly sorry.  Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve made a ghastly error; please excuse me!”

            I could feel the blood rising through my neck and face, the sweat pouring from my forehead as I sped toward the rear of the ballroom, making for the men’s room.  Shocked faces followed me every step of the way, with some people moving to gain space away from my trajectory.     

            “Siri,” I muttered into the phone in my breast pocket. “How popular are diamond tattoos on the hand?” 

I felt humiliated, and poor Miss Wallace was humiliated.  How could I have done this?

            In the restroom, I splashed cold water on my face, touching some to my neck, trying to calm myself.  I picked up one luxurious paper napkin from a silver tray and dried myself slowly.  Then I balled up the paper and threw it into the trash receptacle.

            I was about to declare myself sufficiently composed when I spotted an anomaly in my reflection.  There was a thin, pale band of skin where my signet ring should have been.  I had dropped it in the trash can.  Blast.

            I took my phone out and switched on its flashlight.  I peered into the dark cavity and shined the light on the whole of the evening’s sanitary offerings.  After moving a few crumpled wads aside, I saw them: a blue polyester vest and a voluminous brown bush of a wig.

            The Lynx.

            “Mr. Stone?” came her voice through the door.  “Are you okay?”

            I remained silent.

            “Mr. Stone, can I come in?  It’s okay!  Can I come in and check on you?” she called so politely.

            I looked around hastily and took position atop the toilet nearest the door.

            “Mr. Stone, I’m coming in now. It’s okay, really.”

            She entered and slowly walked the length of the room.  I counted silently to myself as she stepped past my stall.  When I could hear she had reached the last stall I made my move.

            I sprinted to the door and tore down the back hallway toward the kitchen, all the while hearing her calling out to me.

            “Mr. Stone! Come back!”

            I blasted through the kitchens and eventually through an exit door, after which I got myself lost in downtown Luxopolis.  That was too close.

            The next day the Times published a doozy in the social pages:

“Business Tycoon Stone Assaults Reporter!”

The article went on to state that Miss Wallace would not be pressing charges; and a follow-up article the next day stated that the matter had been settled out of court.

            Going forward, a mental note to myself:  The Lynx is a woman.

Equality. Temperance. Excellence.

           Arvin Pelmo sat in an oaken armchair, feeling its ancient polished wood under his palms. He pronounced in his mind the Three Virtues arching over the tall figure of Dean Magda, as she stood silently in front of the room’s massive window, looking over the meticulously manicured lawns of Culver House.  Framed in filtered sunlight, she wore her official black robe, usually reserved for ceremonies and banquets.

            Finally she turned, her face both regal and impassive.

“Do you know why you are here?” she asked.

            “No, Dean Magda.  I was hoping you would tell me the reason for this meeting.”

            Indeed, he was.  The whole semester had passed without so much as a demerit, a warning, or reprimand.  He studied her face, but still saw no hint of her mood or disposition.

            “Mr. Pelmo, we would like to offer you an opportunity.  But first, we need to clear a few things up.”

            Sweat began to form on Arvin’s neck.  He wondered if he could refuse such an offer.

            Dean Magda stepped over to her desk and opened a white plastic box, from which she drew a silver helmet.  Arvin recognized this conglomeration of wire and electrodes and  circuitry.  It was even fitted, ironically, with mock jewels and fleurs-de-lis.

            “You know what this is,” she stated.

            “The dummy hat,” he answered.

            “The Champion’s Crown,” she corrected sternly.

            Yeah, right, he thought to himself.  He had watched different students wear the device from week to week and come to his own conclusions.

            “Mr. Pelmo, the Champion’s Crown was designed by our engineers to help students who have trouble in their studies,” she explained. “Every week, the lowest achieving students are assigned to wear the Crown, to bring them more in line with Culver House’s foundational virtues.”

            This is a lie, Arvin thought.  He had formed his suspicions from the beginning, but Leila confirmed them.

            Leila with her silver hair and wide green eyes, her skin so pale he could see every vein. Her hypnotic, heartbreaking smile.  Besides being the most alluring creature Arvin had ever seen, she was easily one of the smartest students at the academy.  Everything about her exuded wit and savvy.  She was a razor knife in a shed already full of sharp things.

            Several weeks earlier he had found her sitting beside the Horse Fountain in the main courtyard at night, alone and weeping.  She wore the Crown.

            “I don’t understand,” she sobbed. “I’m sure I didn’t miss any questions on any of the exams.  I did my best.  How can I be stuck wearing this thing?”

            She was right.  It didn’t make a bit of sense, unless the Crown is something entirely different than what the school staff is claiming.

            “I can’t stand it,” she lamented. “It feels like a tiny beehive is deep inside my head.”

            “Did they tell you what you missed?” he had asked her.

            “No,” she said. “They didn’t explain anything.”

            No, he thought.  They never do.  Leila wore the crown for two more weeks after that night.  And now…Leila was different.  She just wasn’t Leila anymore.

            “You don’t believe me,” Dean Magda declared.

            “No.”

            “Mr. Pelmo, the reason you were summoned here is twofold.  First, you are a slacker.  A sandbagger.  I took a great chance on you, letting you come to this school, considering your previous…shall we call them…brushes with authority.  But you had limitless potential.  Since then, however, you have never once achieved top score in any class.”

            “Is that a crime?” Arvin asked.

            “Not necessarily.  But I will tell you this. It is statistically unlikely.  So much so that my staff have confirmed it is virtually impossible to have occurred, given your entrance scores.  You are doing this on purpose.  You have guessed the real purpose of the Crown.”

            Arvin couldn’t deny it.  Still, he said nothing.

            “Mr. Pelmo, we look for students with exceptional intuition.  It’s something that cannot be taught.  We do value raw intelligence, but not too much intelligence, if you follow me.”

            Arvin nodded.

            “Equality.  Temperance.  We cannot develop these fully in students who exhibit too much intelligence.  They will never have the self-control to be truly temperate.”

            “You mean obedient,” Arvin said.

            She ignored the comment.

            “They will never truly fit in with the Academy’s goal of preparing young people for life in the Frontier Colonies, to integrate into a way of life that demands a loyalty to the greater good,” she continued.

            “You mean having their own ideas, their own identities,” Arvin countered.

            Dean Magda stared at him for what seemed like a very long while.

            “You’re very bright, Arvin.”  She was smiling now. “You see things.  That’s why I am making you this offer, a chance to latch on to the greater vision we have here at Culver House. An opportunity to make a real difference.”

            Arvin waited.

            “We are offering you a junior position on our training staff.  You will no longer attend classes.  You will be one of us, Arvin, and help administer the curriculum.  I will only ask you one time.  I need your answer at once.”         

            There was no question in Arvin’s mind what this offer meant.  He thought about his previous life in the Terran slums, the poverty and uncertainty.  He thought about the future he had imagined out among the stars.  He thought about Leila.  Would he do that to her?

            “Dean Magda, I must refuse.  Thank you for your consideration.”

            Silence.

“I thought so,” she answered, her smile fading.

            Suddenly Arvin felt steely hands grip his shoulders, pinning him to the chair.  When had they entered the room?  He thought he was alone with the Dean.  Now he sensed he truly was alone, unable to move.

            Dean Magda glided slowly over to him and placed the Crown on his head.  Immediately he heard a faint buzzing all around him.

            “Excellent,” she pronounced.

Of all the ramshackle, makeshift “lounges” I’ve ever spent time in during my decades of crisscrossing every dive and hotel in this dusty land, this was the worst. And the smelliest. I should have braced myself when I noticed underneath the flickering neon “Max’s Comedy Castle” sign, one could still read in ghostly bleed-through letters, “Timmons Truckstop & Taxidermy.” I guess an economy class magician in his sunset years can expect no better:  I took what I could get.

When I first entered the room, my nose was assaulted by the unnatural mixture of smoke, must, urine and cinnamon. I set down in a beaten green velvet wing back and started in on a watered-down cherry soda. The sweetness of the drink didn’t help the odor.

“You’re on in forty-five,” Max informed me. “They’re gonna love ya, Tim. We ain’t had a magic man since before the fire.”

He left immediately, I presumed to tend to the early patrons.

Okay.

I looked around at no less than fifty stuffed creatures in various poses and stages of completion, some on the wall, some on pedestals strewn about the place. Predator and prey were displayed, even a Capuchin monkey. Although the space seemed long and fairly wide, it was crowded and poorly lit by three electric chandeliers.

“Psst.”

I heard it, but didn’t know from which direction the sound had come.

“Excuse me?” I queried. “Is someone else here?”

Max hadn’t mentioned the possibility of anyone else.

I remembered the time in Reno I was relaxing with a perfect martini in my hand when two dwarfs dressed as cowboys, complete with tiny shooting irons, crawled out from under a coffee table. Scared the daylights out of me! Eddie and Vito; they claimed they were brothers. I forgave them for making me spill my martini, and they forgave me for pulling a knife on them. They still send me postcards at Christmas sometimes.

No answer.

I stood up and stepped around a massive, but tattered, grizzly bear, ample enough to be hiding three dwarfs.

“Psst.”

Did the sound come from behind me that time?

“I say. Who’s there? Is this some kind of joke?” I challenged.

Annoyance was creeping over me.

I tip-toed past a couple of jaguars, ducked under an elk head, sidled past two battling rams, and waited.

Just because Max didn’t mention anyone else didn’t mean there wasn’t anyone else. And what was the idea of sneaking around anyway? I might expect a prank or two at a comedy club, but a lunatic?

“Psst.”

“Who’s there? What, are you gonna sing me ‘Happy Birthday’, pal?”

See, one time I heard someone whistling “Happy Birthday” as I was unlocking my apartment door back home in Fresno. I froze! It felt like a bad slasher flick. I could already see the headline in the paper: “The Birthday Killer Strikes Again!” But I wasn’t in any mortal danger. Turned out to be some bum crashed out in the bushes nearby. He high-tailed it when he saw the Gerber in my hand.

This time I had definitely heard it on the other side of the room. This sucker was moving around. Why did this always happen to me?

I crept slowly across the room, needling my way around foxes and beavers and a jackalope.

I drew my trusty blade from my pocket. Had to be prepared, after all.

“Psst.”

Blast it! It came from off to the right. Against that dark paneled wall was the front half of a Texas longhorn. I felt trapped in its glassy stare.

He reminded me of the time in Rio Rancho when some crazy chute boss thought it would be funny to let a bull loose in the middle of my act at the Hot Tamale Rodeo. Got a lifetime ban after I jabbed that beast in the nose with four inches of steel. But you could hardly have blamed me, right?

Surely he didn’t just psst me! This wasn’t Narnia. Someone was playing me for a fool.

“Alright! That’s enough of this, buddy!”

I advanced toward the bull, staring it down, brandishing the Gerber, certain that my tormentor would leap out from somewhere nearby.

“Psst.”

“Come out from there!”

I charged toward the bull, my eyes darting left and right, waiting for the prankster to surrender with arms thrown high, apologizing and pleading for mercy.

Nothing. I waited. I could feel my teeth sweat. Dozens of cold hard stares eagerly anticipated what would unfold.

“Psst.”

Then I saw it, nestled below and to the right of the bull. A Glade automatic air freshener. Apple Cinnamon.

Aw, nuts. I ran it through all the same.