Barry Longyear: The Purloined Labradoodle

“George Axelrod and John Frankenheimer, Executive Producer Howard W. Koch.”

“She may have seen it,” Shad reported back.

“Don’t you want to know who did Janet Leigh’s hair styles?” Rita Hayworth asked the parrot. She pulled back the left corner of her mouth into a knowing smile. “Or do you already know?”

The parrot looked up at me. “Only a fool bandies wits with an electron,” I offered.

Shad looked back at the screen. “Who?” he asked.

“I rest my case.”

“Gene Shacove,” she answered.

While Shad went on the net to check out her answer, he asked Lolita, “Why didn’t your partner come and get you out?”

Rita arched her lovely brows. “Partners look out for each other. If I had a partner you think I would’ve gotten into such a fix?” She looked down. “Four years,” she said. “Four years.”

“What did you do all that time to keep from going crazy?” asked Shad.

Rita stared wide eyed at Shad. “Why, birdie, I passed the time by playing a little solitaire.”

We both fell silent as Shad and I reflected upon the famous trigger-the-killer line from the original The Manchurian Candidate. He pointed his wing at the frame next to Rita. Janet Leigh’s hairstyles by Gene Shacove.

Shad looked at Rita. “Ever see the remake to The Manchurian Candidate?”

Rita nodded, smiling wickedly.

“What’d you think?”

“I’d rather go back and watch the original another fifty-five hundred times.” Her CGI looked at me. “What are you going to do with me, Inspector?”

“To be perfectly honest, Lolita, I don’t know. Hence, I’m going to pass the buck. I have a friend in London and this parrot, Dr. Watson here, is going to send your engrams and particulars to my friend for a second opinion.” Shad looked at me all wide eyed and quizzical. “Dr. Bing Ehrenberg. You’ll find his address in my personal folder. Attach a copy of Lolita’s previous along with a brief description of the current situation, what she’s been through, and our assessment of her account, and send the lot to Dr. Ehrenberg. Include her complete prison record, as well.” I looked one last time at Rita. “While he’s doing that, I’ll see if I can repair old Ringo and get the bird singing again. Once I hear from the doctor, I’ll make my decision.” I put her on pause.

Later, as Lolita’s engrams and history were bouncing off a satellite, I told Shad to destroy the AI chip once Ehrenberg confirmed receipt and installation. Then I turned my attention to Ringo. I brushed off the crumbly old icing from its toes, reattached the parakeet’s robotic computer, anchored the minicards, reattached the remainder of the connections, buttoned it up, and listened as the bird began singing the sweetest bird songs. I held out a finger and with a flap of its wings it jumped up and perched there, shook the dust from its back and wings, the remaining bits of wedding cake from its toes, its happy song filling the air. Picking up the carrying case by the handle, I brought the patient back to our client. Maddie girl’s face blossomed into smiles. “Bloody Nora, Ringo’s as right as rain. I comes in here and says to meself this here Sherlock Holmes and his bleedin’ parrot’re a couple of barmpots, but who’s arse-up now? Eh? Ringo’s right as rain.”

“Like sands through the hour glass,” began Shad, “so are the days of our lives—”

“Shad,” I interrupted with a mix of menace and smile.

Since our credit numbers and equipment were out there somewhere awaiting delivery along with our puppies and kittens, we took Madeleine Wallingford’s address ostensibly for billing purposes and agreed to put an advert in the window for an outing to the medieval underground tunnels of Exeter being organized by the Lympstone Society and another for Maddie’s own group, the Order of St. Trinians, ta ta, Abyssinia, and all that twaddle. The door closed.

Quoth the parrot, “Nevermore.”

“Sorry?”

“Jaggs, I think I see the purpose of this catch-and-release policy of yours. We’re trying to build up the criminal stock out there in the mainstream so that there will be criminals enough for all law enforcement officers everywhere to make a living. It’s part of the Blue Peace Environmental Movement, right?”

“Although I truly admire the depth of your cynicism, Shad, certainly someone of your sensitivity and high intellect can appreciate that Lolita Doll has learned everything confinement at government expense can teach her.”

“I heartily agree with your modest assessment of my mental prowess, Jaggs, but you must really be sticking something tender beneath a pinch bar if you have to resort to such blatant flattery. Who is this Dr. Ehrenberg, anyway?”

“Chap in London. Therapist. Back when I was killed in Metro, he went a long way toward piecing me back together and into my first bio. If Bing says tossing what’s left of Lolita Doll before a magistrate is what’s best for her, then off she goes. If he says we do something else, then we’ll see. Meanwhile, give Superintendent Matheson a ring and see if anything is brewing.”

He did and something was. While Shad and I had been in Lympstone disposing of Lolita and the kaput parakeet matter, ABCD units in Manchester and London, in conjunction with local police authorities, had successfully detained all the improper puppy imprinting principals as well as their primary patrons. The bogus bio barons had been bagged. While muttering, Shad flew to the shop’s garage and copied back into his Nigel Bruce, I bent to the task of repacking all those bloomin’ boxes of bird seed, tins of dog food, and little packets of catnip. Mama Bimbo’s Cat House was going out of business, mon.

As Shad drove us back to Exeter he said in his Watson voice, “Of course, Holmes, Frankie Statten was her partner.”

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t the fellow rescue her?”

“Never let it be said that Frank Statten unnecessarily placed himself at risk for anything or anybody.”

“Honor among thieves. Humph! Stranding her like that,” said Watson in disgust. “What do you suppose it was like, Holmes, after watching that vid a few thousand times with Barmy Barney then shut up in a little box in the dark for another three years? Nothing to move but your eyeballs? Nothing to think about but The Manchurian Candidate.” He shuddered convincingly. “Had to make two weeks of solitary confinement seem a mere stroll in the park.”

“It must have been strikingly like an experience I had years ago in London shortly after I died, Watson.” I wondered slightly at my use of the “Watson” name. Came devilishly easy to the tongue for someone who swore the name would never pass his lips.

“In a cast were you, Holmes?” asked Watson. “Held in stasis a long time, old trout? Medically induced coma?”

“Not at all, old fellow. Valerie took me to see a showing of the Bette Davis-Lillian Gish classic, The Whales of August . ” For once Shad didn’t immediately come back with the release date. He simply shuddered.

“Dear me,” he said. “You gave me quite a start, Holmes. Had a shockingly similar experience with Nadine not long ago,” he said.

“Really.”

“I should say so. They had the bloody thing at the Exeter Picture House. Special treat. I’d never seen it before. The Whales of August. Ought to require theaters to post well-being warnings before showing the blithering health hazard.”

“Were you convinced you were running a risk, doctor?”

“Holmes, it was like watching quartz crystals grow in real time.”

I shook my head. “I didn’t find the action quite that compelling.”