Real Men Don't Bark at Fire Hydrants Part 5

The marquee of the local Marriott was in sight in the next block when the singer stopped to lean against a lamppost and stare intently toward the hotel's entrance.

Mickey crossed the street to parallel the other's path. Three chartered buses pulled into the horseshoe drive beneath the marquee. From them emerged a small horde of overweight men in tight, spangled jumpsuits. About half of the new arrivals carried gleaming electric guitars and wore slicked-back hair whose colors varied from brown and black and blond through all the shades of gray. The rest wore yellow hardhats from which jutted bright red plastic moose antlers.

Cabs and airport limos disgorged more spangled musicians and mooses in twos and threes. They joined the crowd from the buses in a confusion of greetings, handshakes, and backslaps while the limo drivers produced a few suitcases for the hotel's bellman to pile on a polished bra.s.s cart.

Mickey had an excellent view when the buses pulled away from the hotel and four of the new arrivals spotted the fire hydrant by the curb. They broke away from the pack and trotted across the drive, where three of them circled the hydrant three times counterclockwise, waving their instruments above their heads and yelling, "Hound dog! Hound dog!" The fourth, a moose, seemed to be keeping watch, rather like a dog that knew it would be scolded if its master showed up.

There was another hydrant precisely across the street from the one in front of the hotel. A Ford Tempo with a ticket under its windshield wiper was parked beside it. Mickey Gorgonzola stopped and let Kilroy sniff around its base while he stared.

"Widdershins," he said. "The way witches are supposed to dance around their cauldrons and altars. Did you know that, Kilroy?"

They were just as nuts as hydrant-woofers.

Mickey looked back the way he had come. The backwards singer had now abandoned his lamppost. Back straight and head up, he was almost marching toward the crowd in front of the Marriott. When he was about a car-length from them, he waved, raised both hands, put his thumbs to his temples, wiggled his fingers, and cried out quite loudly enough for Mickey to hear above the sounds of the city's traffic: "Svil luk-niw-lub!"

Several of the crowd's members punched the shoulders of neighbors who had not yet spotted the newcomer. Soon the whole group was waving back and shouting with a single voice: "Oot siv-le!"

The hotel's doorman held the door for the bellman and his cart. A moose gestured him aside and took his post. The singer bowed to the crowd, spun on his heels, and stepped into the hotel. The rest followed.

Kilroy eyed the hydrant he had been investigating skeptically, barked once, and lifted a leg.

Mickey Gorgonzola said, "Looks like a washout from here. Just a convention." He sounded and felt disappointed. Conventions and conventioneers were routinely strange. Every year the city endured migrations of Lions and Elks, office supplies salesmen and feminists, Odd Fellows and Redmen. Suddenly a horde of spangled guitarists and mooses did not seem strange at all. Nor did barking executives, nonsense talkers, and backwards singers.

"Let's go home," he added. But when he tugged on Kilroy's harness, the dog refused to budge.

"Really," said Mickey. "Well what the h.e.l.l, why not." He let his dog lead him around the bow of the Ford Tempo and across the street, apparently quite oblivious to the squealing of brakes and the bark from somewhere behind him.

The first thing he saw inside the Marriott was a sign mounted on a silvery pedestal. It said:

THE BULLWINKLE-ELVIS.

BROTHERHOOD.

11-2.

SPRINGFIELD HALL.

ROOM 318.

Lunch, he thought, and his stomach growled. A luncheon meeting. He wondered if the backwards singer was their luncheon speaker.

The second thing he saw was the dim-lit bar to one side of the lobby. The bar was not crowded. Kilroy led him to a booth with a view of the lobby. "Ah,"

he said. He scratched the dog's ears. "So we won't quit." The backwards singer might very well stay with the Bullvis Brotherhood until 2. Or he might not. If he didn't, Kilroy was saying as clearly as any dog could ever say anything at all, Mickey should be in a position to see him leave. If he came through the lobby.

"May I help you?"

The waitress leaning over his table had a British accent and wore a nametag that said "C. Stilton." She was also high-busted and short-skirted, and he had to struggle to maintain his pretense that he could see nothing.

"Just coffee, please."

"Nothing for the dog?"

He dug into the pocket of his windbreaker and found a dog biscuit. "This should do him. Unless you could bring a bowl of water?"

"Of course, sir!"

The way she bounced when she straightened up reminded him of the way Rocky had looked that morning. He smiled, glanced toward the empty lobby, and studied the bar across the room. Behind it was a traditional mirror and a tier of shelves loaded with bottles. One of the shelves held an antique mantle clock that said the time was 11:05.

The waitress returned with his order just as Rocky and Bert appeared together in the entrance to the bar.

"There you are!" Rocky cried.

"Are you drunk yet?" asked Bert Camen.

"What are you talking about?"

"I had to cancel a client," said Rocky Forte. "A man called and said you were sticking your nose where you really shouldn't. Then he said you were here at the Marriott, in the bar, and I should come get you."

"And you believed him?"

"He sounded very official." She sounded apologetic. "And I know you can..."

She shrugged at him. "So I called Bert. And..."

Suddenly Mickey held up a hand. "Wait a minute," he said. "You were in your office?"

She nodded.

"That's over a mile from here."

She nodded again.

"And this guy called you. Then you called Bert?"

She and Bert both nodded this time.

"When was this?"

"About half an hour ago," said Rocky. "We walked."

"I've only been here five minutes."

Bert chuckled. "You said they were s.p.a.ce aliens. You shouldn't be surprised if they can see the future."

Rocky seemed to take the discrepancy more seriously. "I don't see how that could be."

"We wouldn't, would we?"

"There has to be a simpler explanation."

Mickey sighed. "I was following him," he said. "The backwards singer.