Chapter 57: Breaking Fast in Vegas
Sometimes on cartoons, to depict morning, the screen will show pastoral scenes of the sun rising lazily, with roosters crowing nobly in the background and someone commenting on the lovely smell of…well, let’s say coffee, okay? This wasn’t one of those mornings.
Kermit had been a good sort about all the negative publicity up until now, but he tore through the back stage in a seriously black funk. People had been known to hurl themselves bodily out of Piggy’s way when she was on a tear like this, but with Kermit it was so unexpected that people just stared until the last minute, then scrambled to avoid being plowed through. Curiosity and surprise made them follow him in an untidy wake, murmuring softly as he stomped through the hotel toward the executive offices.
“Never seen him like this,” said Dr. Teeth. “The little green guy has up and lost his mellow.”
“Not like him at all,” agreed Rowlf. Even Foo Foo, who had had much more exposure to Kermit in unguarded personal moments, was slightly staggered by the angry amphibian.
Scooter’s arrival on the scene was greeted by a surge of anxious bodies, but he waved them all away desperately and plunged after Kermit.
“At least tell us what’s going on!” demanded Gloria Jean.
“Yeah!” said Rizzo. “C’mon—tell us what’s up!”
Scooter hesitated, looking back but still half-running after Kermit. If he didn’t slow down, he just might make the door with Kermit. He opened his mouth to reply, but Sarah came running up breathlessly and he shot her a pleading look.
“Tell them,” he said. “I’ve got to go be with Kermit.”
Sarah nodded and panted, trying to catch her breath. She was dressed and coifed, but her clothes were not as well-matched as usual, and her ponytail was noticeably off-center, as though she had dressed in a tremendous hurry. Her room-mates, Camilla and Janice, looking equally disheveled, followed hurriedly in her wake.
The crowd of anxious muppets stared at her expectantly, and she started talking before she’d quite caught her breath.
“Scribbler,” she said urgently. “He wrote another terrible article about Kermit and how he’s holding Piggy back.”
There was an indignant huff from the gathered assembly. Although it was hard to argue against Piggy’s considerable talent, there wasn’t a soul there who couldn’t recognize that Piggy had only rocketed to superstardom once she began to work with Kermit. Officially (and certainly un-officially), there were different opinions as to why this was so. Some said that Kermit was the only one who could restrain Piggy’s flamboyance enough to turn her over-the-top into top-of-the-heap. Some believed that Piggy had not been able to find her acting center until she had been truly and irrevocably in love. There was more than one person who believed that the inevitably friction between Kermit’s laid-back but uncompromising direction and Piggy’s wildly creative diva-ness was the magic formula, but whatever the cause, Scribbler was striking at the root of it with vigor.
“Yeah,” said Janice. “Like, he practically begged other directors to come and take her away.”
“Wow,” said Gonzo. “What did he say?”
Janice held up the newspaper. “Um, it’s um…oh! Here! ‘I’m begging all the directors out there to come and take Piggy away from all this!”
“He didn’t!” said Clifford. “Man, Kerm is going to be steamed.”
“Going to be? Did you see him come through here a minute ago?”
“Yeah—but where was he going? What’s the hotel going to do about it?”
“He’s here,” said Janice. Camilla be-gawked something urgent.
“Who’s here?”
“Him!”
“Him who?”
“Him Scribbler,” said Janice.
“Him here in Vegas?” said Clifford, then shook his head as if to clear it. “What do you mean here? Here in Vegas?”
“Here in this hotel,” said Sara. Everyone turned and looked at her.
“Here?” squeaked Sally Ann.
“For real?”
“No way.”
“Way,” said Sara. “Some of the articles about the show have been generic, but he specifically referenced something in last night’s show.” Her eyes were sober. “That means he was there—in the audience.” She let out a little shiver and wished suddenly that Scooter was there to put his arms around her, but Scooter had gone with Kermit to see what the hotel could do.
“Well, Hi say let’s find that estupido periodista and thrrrrash him,” said Pepe, all four arms raised like a miniature pugilist. He might have charged forward, but Dr. Teeth reached out and lifted him gently by the scruff of his, um, neck. Pepe looked down in confusion.
“My feets are moving, but Hi am not—hey! Hey, put me down, Doc—Hi am going to make mincemeat of dat man!” Dr. Teeth patted him absently on the head.
“’Preciate the thought, my fine prawn, but let’s wait and see what happens first.”
“I don’t think Pepe’s idea is that bad,” said Laura May, hands on her tidy hips.
There was a general murmur of assent, and they looked at each other uncertainly.
“So, what do we do?” asked Gloria Jean.
Everyone looked at Sara, who looked back at them.
“Um, tell the others, first, I guess. Tell everyone to keep their eyes open for anything strange.”
Clifford spoke up reluctantly. “Man, I don’t want to rain on anybody’s parade, but this is Las Vegas. If we start keeping tabs on everything strange that’s going on, we’ll never get anything done.”
“Clifford’s right,” said Rizzo. “I think we need to be specific. We need to look for anyone who might be in disguise.”
“Such as?”
“Um, fake moustaches and, um, floppy hats.” He looked thoughtful. “Doesn’t Scribbler run around in a trench coat a lot?”
“Yeah—it’s just like the one Uncle Kermit used to wear for his Frog on the Street interviews,” piped up Robin.
There was a general murmur of dismay. The small frog had inserted himself into the midst of them without anyone noticing, and he met their dismayed looks with determination.
“I’ve been here the whole time,” he said smugly. “So don’t even think of keeping me out of this.”
Sara shifted nervously. “Um, well, does your Aunt Piggy know where you are?”
“Um, no,” Robin admitted sheepishly. “She thinks I’m still in bed.” He looked up defensively. “But I heard Uncle Kermit shouting on the phone. So when Mr. Thoreau came by to stay with Piggy, I slipped out and followed Uncle Kermit down here. And found you guys.”
Rowlf waved his cell phone at them and stepped away to call the The Frog’s suite and tell Piggy where Robin was, leaving the group to decide what next.
“So, I guess we watch out for anyone who looks like they’re trying to hide their identity,” finished Sara uncertainly. She was unsure how it was that she had suddenly become one of the leaders of this little posse. “But do it inconspicuously.” As if on cue, everyone who had pockets shoved hands into them and started to whistle. Sara sighed. Begin inconspicuous might not be as easy as it sounded for this group. She eyed Gonzo ensemble—from his artfully cuffed plaid pants to his flamenco-dancer-inspired shirt, and sighed again.
She looked helplessly at Dr. Teeth, who had released Pepe and begun to shoo the little knot of people away.
“So, spread out,” Dr. Teeth said. “We’ve got a couple of hours before we need to check in backstage for the cast and crew meeting. If you do see someone that looks suspicious, don’t try anything. Keep him in sight and call someone. Then we’ll decide what to do.”
General head-nodding abounded, and the little group dispersed unhappily. Sara hugged herself again. She didn’t like this—this feeling that some malevolent force was close-by, but she would do her part. They all would. No matter what, they needed to stick together.
Despite being up until past two, Brenda had been up some time, and was currently talking across time zones.
“Yes—I saw it!” she fumed into the phone. “Somebody ought to pull that guy’s license.” There was a chuckle on the other end of the phone and some mild rebuke, but Brenda charged on indignantly. “Not his journalistic license—those are almost impossible to take away—I was talking about his human being license, since I'm not sure he qualifies any more.” She laughed at her own absurdity, then sighed, suddenly weary. ‘Oh, Nigel—I miss you, darling.” She paused, twirling the phone cord “Maybe tomorrow, dear,” she said doubtfully. “Let me see how the day goes.” Another silence, and then she smiled and murmured into the phone. ‘Yes, Nigel—that sounds lovely. Just pack my skis. Miss you, darling. Love you. Yes—that too. Goodbye.” She clicked off the little cell phone and stared at it ruefully for a moment, then shed her silk dressing robe and began to dress for a day in the trenches
“What’s he look like again?” asked the cute little waitress on the morning shift.
Mable paused thoughtfully, trying to bring into focus a face she had only glimpsed.
“Skinny guy, a little shaggy, a lot scruffy,” she said.
“Is this the guy with the big dog you talked about before?”
“What? No—not him. He’s a sweetheart. This guy—not so much.”
“What’d he do? Stiff you for breakfast?” the young lady teased.
Mabel forced a smile. “Something like that,” she said vaguely. “Actually, I’ve got something that I’d like to give him if I can find him again.”
The young waitress just nodded knowingly, and moved off to bully the cook about the platters for table 15. She didn’t ask, but if she had, Mabel would have had an answer ready
“A piece of my mind,” she finished grimly, and pulled out her little order pad. She trundled over to a table full of suit dresses.
“Hi there,” she said to the table full of business-women. “What can I get you ladies for breakfast?”
Kermit had forbidden the hateful tabloids in their home, but Thoreau had sneaked one in to Piggy with her double-chocolate half-caff extra-whipped cream latte and a couple of biscotti. He knew she knew about its existence, and the truth—however horrible—was always better than speculation. He had handed it over without comment and watched her face go from worried to…completely unreadable. Piggy could do that—could stuff everything behind a polite façade of nothing, but Thoreau was not fooled. The biscuits and the coffee had been greeted with effusive thanks, but sat untouched on the little, low table, and Thoreau was aware that her air of indignant nonchalance was more act than substance.
“It’s a tacky little article with weak little stabs,” he’s sniffed dismissively, “although he was right about you in the first half of the show. You looked positively scrumptious!”
Piggy smiled weakly and gave a half-hearted preen, but it lacked her usual pizzazz.
Thoreau regarded her with compassion and patted the divan beside him.
“How’s that frog of yours?” he asked gently, taking Piggy’s hand and making her sit. “He’s not letting this get to him, is he?”
Piggy tried to shrug it off, but ended up shaking her head in dismay. “He was so angry this morning. He and Scooter have gone to talk to Jack and Frosty and Seymour to see if there’s anything they can do.”
Thoreau’s face revealed nothing, but he was secretly relieved that the red-headed secretary had gone along. Seemed like a capable guy, Thoreau thought, and a good fellow to have at your side. What he said to Piggy was, “Oh, well, then—let’s let the men argue over it then. I want to talk to you about the new year.”
Piggy nodded absently, not really listening, but when the conversation worked it’s way over the Oscars and Grammies, she perked up.
“Sorry, dearest—I was distracted. Vous were saying?”
Patiently, Thoreau repeated what he’d heard from his inside sources about the buzz for Fozzie’s Angels, their new movie. True—they hadn’t done anything this past year that would have garnered any nominations—but anticipation of their upcoming release would probably net them a chance to present, at least. Piggy had a standing invitation form Melissa and Joan to join them any time on the red carpet, but Piggy had never really been interested in what anyone else was wearing and did not care to pretend. She turned to her dressmaker and friend expectantly.
“Okay,” she said. “If they ask Moi to present, what do you think? Classic? Or daring?”
Thoreau snorted. “If by daring you mean going with your posterior hanging out the back of your dress, then I’d have to say—no! Not a chance. But if you want me to try to breathe new life into an old favorite, I do have some ideas.”
“Maybe vous could show them to Moi sometime?” Piggy asked, finally snared and fully engaged in the moment.
Thoreau’s eyes flickered in triumph, and he reached for his portfolio which he had leaned surreptitiously against the back of the couch.
“By an amazing coincidence,” he said dryly, “I have them with me now….”
“No, no—this way, scout,” Rowlf said, expertly steering Robin away from the poker players. “Those guys don’t know what day it is—much less who’s hanging around. Let’s try in here.”
“Ooh!” said Foo Foo, gazing about at all the little sparklies. ‘Good idea, big R.”
The lady behind the jewelry counter looked up and smiled a professionally brilliant smile. If she was startled to see two dogs and a small frog enter the little shop, she gave no sign of it. This was Vegas—and any paying customer was a welcome customer.
“Hello,” she said brightly. “Welcome to Gems.”
“Jim who?” Rowlf couldn’t help mutter under his breath, and Foo Foo poked him playfully in the ribs.
“Wow,” said Robin admiringly. “You have lots of lights in here!”
It was true. The little space was lit up like a studio, and the myriad rays of light refracted and reflected off every multi-faceted gemstone in the store.
“The better to see you with,” the salesclerk said pleasantly. She was a diminutive, well-put-together lady easing gracefully into the latter half of middle age, and she regarded the trio with a friendly but assessing eye. One thing the shopkeeper had figured out early on in this business was that couples stopping in to buy engagement rings and other fancy baubles usually did not want to be greeted by a statuesque babe. They much preferred a vaguely parental presence, who could bless their choices—no matter how impractical—without any troublesome flirtatiousness. This looked like a couple…sortof, but she was struggling to place the young frog. Hmmm, she thought, tugging on the corner of her memory. There had been something in the papers about a frog…. “Looking for something in particular?” she asked, deferring to Foo Foo, who was gazing about her in rapt contemplation. Her well-manicured hand hovered over the rings. “We have a lovely selection of diamond—“
She registered their hasty alarm and amended easily.
“—tennis bracelets.” She pulled a glittering tray from under the counter and held it where Foo Foo could see it.
“Oh,” said the little dog breathlessly. “I’ve never played tennis before, but I’ve always wanted to learn….”
“Well, actually, there is something you could help us with,” said Rowlf, looking uneasily at Foo’s enchanted expression. His collar felt just a little tight and it seemed suddenly warm. “We’re looking for a friend of ours somebody said was here.”
“Oh?” Her interest was polite, but nothing more. Lots of people were hunting lots of people in this city, and she tried to steer clear of those sorts of entanglements. Still, there was something sooo familiar about that little frog. She studied his face and, feeling her gaze on him, Robin turned his face up to hers and smiled.
“My Aunt Piggy would love this place,” he said, eyes wide with wonder.
Ahhhh. Everything fell into place of a sudden, and the lady smiled down at Robin.
“She certainly would,” she said with a wide smile. “In fact, your uncle and aunt came to see me a few months ago,” she added, “and stayed a long, long time.” She started to say something else, but held her tongue thoughtfully. Not everyone his age is good a keeping secrets.
Robin’s perpetually wide eyes widened even more. “Really?”
“Really.” The lady turned to her canine shoppers with more than casual interest and looked at them more carefully. Now she got it. This was…this was the piano player, she remembered. And his fluffy little companion looked almost familiar, but not quite. “Who are you looking for?”
Rowlf read the change in her face and opted for the truth. “We’re on the lookout for a sleazy reporter guy—name of Scribbler. Works for—“
“Yes,” the lady said, her mouth pursing in distaste. “I know. Dreadful drivel. Well, we do have a fairly wide range of customers here,” she said thoughtfully, “but I don’t think we’ve had anyone like that in here. We do tend to attract a more high-end clientele—or a least, a luckier clientele,” she ended with a small smile.
Rowlf nodded resignedly. “Well, thank you for your help. We won’t take up any more of your time.” He was turning to go when she made a small sound of hesitation.
“You want me to…I could say something to the other shopkeepers,” she said hesitantly. “Ask them to keep a lookout?”
Rowlf’s grin was wide and sincere, and Foo Foo made a little yip of pleased surprise.
‘Thank you,” she said.
“Yeah—thanks a bunch,” said Rowlf. “We’ll take all the help we can get.”
Robin turned at the door and waved shyly. “Thank you!” he chirped, and followed his friends out the door.
Sal waddled into the suite with a terrycloth robe tied over his damp but clean form. He was toweling his head energetically, but looked up when he heard Johnny Fiama’s voice on the phone.
“No—got it,” Johnny was saying. “No—we’ll get right on it. Thanks, roomie.” He hung up the phone, looking grim.
Sal looked up at him expectantly, wondering about the conversation and Johnny’s brooding brows.
“Hey, Say—get dressed pronto, woncha? We got some stuff to do.”
Sal rubbed his damp head with energy. “Sure thing, Johnny,” he said. “I’ll be ready in a jif.”
Johnny nodded absently, picked up the phone, and began to dial. He waited, jingling the change in his pocket absently while he listened for the connection to go through.
At last, the phone stopped ringing and querulous voice answered.
“Hey, Ma,” said Johnny. “It’s your boy, Johnny. Look—can I have Cousin Guido’s telephone number—the one he don’t give out? I need some help….”
“Nobody here looks scruffy or funny,” said Gonzo, joining Rizzo at the front of the little café.
“I wouldn’t say that,” said the little rat sardonically.
Gonzo gave a token laugh. “Well, at least no one here seems to be in disguise—unless you think Scribbler’s one of those two old guys and their wives.” He jerked his head toward the Statlers and the Waldorfs meaningfully. “D’you check the other side?”
“Naw—Pepe’s checking the other side.”
They paused, looked at each other uncertainly, then sighed.
“Better check,” said Gonzo, and craned his neck around the corner.
They found Pepe talking to a table with five lovely ladies all crowded around it. He was saying something, and they were giggling and shaking their heads. Gonzo and Rizzo looked at each other, self-consciously slicked back their hair, and approached the table.
“Hello, ladies,” said Gonzo politely. He had a wonderful view of their shapely knees and muscular calves, and was pretty certain he was talking to a table full of showgirls.
“Hey,” said Rizzo, waving and trying hard to remember he was dating a chorus girl already.
“Did any of you happen to see anyone who looked like he was wearing a disguise this week?”
The ladies giggled again, wondering if this was some new pick-up line.
“No….”
“I don’t think so….”
“There were three Elvises in here earlier…” one began.
“We know them,” said Rizzo. “Not the guy we’re looking for.
“What does he look like?
“Um, sortof scruffy,” said Rizzo immediately. One of the girls nodded at once.
“We get a lot of that,” she said, her big green eyes wide.
Gonzo shot Rizzo an annoyed look. “Not real tall, skinny guy—often wears a trench coat.”
“Is he green?” one of the ladies asked suddenly. “I think I’ve seen—“
“No,” Gonzo said hastily. “And he’s got, um, sortof of salt-and-pepper hair.”
“Why would he put salt and pepper on his hair?” asked the girl with green eyes, looking at him in confusion.
Okay. Not much help here. Pepe looked like he was about to drool, and Gonzo snagged him expertly with one furry blue arm around one of the amorous prawn’s arms.
“Couldn’t tell you, ma’am,” said Gonzo wearily. “Thanks anyway for your help,” he sighed, and gave Rizzo a significant look. Rizzo also grabbed one of Pepe’s arms and began to drag him out of the café.
“Wait! Espera! Hi am not done here!”
“Sure you are,” Gonzo muttered, and they moved inexorably toward the door.
“Ladies! Hi am appearing nightly, h’okay? And Hi am available for private performances if you—“
His voice was lost as his companions dragged him out the door. After they had gone, the chorus girls exchanged looks and giggles.
“He was cute,” said the one with green eyes.
“The little blue guy was sortof yummy,” said her neighbor to the left, “if you don’t mind the schnoz.”
“The other guy reminds me of a guy I dated last year,” said a pert redhead thoughtfully.
“Short guy?” asked a cool blonde, swinging her mane of platinum hair out of her face.
The redhead shook her head sadly. “No,” she said. “Just a rat.”
There wasn’t much conversation at another breakfast table, but there was a great deal of happy sighing and murmured words of endearment over coffee and waffles. There had been a great deal of spirited debate about the merits of fruit topping verses syrup, but was seemed largely to fill the time between contented sighs and half-hearted attempts at conversation. Some of this jollity was the result of sincere happiness, but some of it was to stave off the inevitable. At last, the subject could be avoided no longer.
Edward sighed and pressed Autumn’s soft hands between his own. Her hands felt light and cool in his, his warm hand enveloping hers like gloves.
“When must you go?” he asked at last. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he knew when she looked down. The absence of her radiant smile was like the sun going suddenly behind a cloud.
Her voice was low. “I spoke to my…office this morning,” she said, her voice subdued. “They said….”
“Yes?” He could not help a little catch in his voice, nor the convulsively grip on her hands for a moment.
The sun returned in all its brilliance, and Autumn Transylvania slipped the bare toes of one foot up the cuff of Edward’s immaculately cut trousers playfully. Ed startled but managed not to bolt out of his chair and to keep a relatively straight face.
“And they said I don’t have any pressing assignments until they contact me again.” There was laughter in her low voice, and more than a hint of teasing. “I simply don’t know what I’m going to do with myself.”
There was a short period that, while devoid of sound, was quite full of possibilities.
“Well,” said Edward softly. His voice was rich with promise. “Allow me to offer a few suggestions….”
If bad news travels fast, gossip must be said to travel at the speed of light. Floyd had not been with the other cast members when the call for action had gone out, but the news had already reached him backstage in the musicians’ room. He’d been strumming, playing with a couple of chord progressions while a song worked its laborious way up from his soul to his fingers.
“She was mine for a time but I just couldn’t see that the time that we had was so brief,” he sang softly. “I lied to myself and she—“
Someone tapped him on the shoulder and Floyd startled and spun—only to find himself looking into Janice’s sober eyes.
“Hey,” he said softly, and his bushy eyebrows rose to show his softened gaze as he gazed at her troubled face.
Janice looked up at him and hesitated. “Floyd,” she said, “I know you’re busy and all but—“
“No, no,” the bass player heard himself say. “Say away, babe.” That last had sortof slipped out but, with a thrill of defiance, he did not retract it.
“I need your help,” said Janice. To his astonishment, her hands reached out and clasped his, and she stepped closer. Her hair smelled like springtime and clover and new-mown hay and the wild salt smell of the sea. Floyd was having trouble taking in enough air.
“My help,” he repeated stupidly, and Janice just nodded.
“Like, that Scribbler guy printed another really obnoxious article about Kermit,” she said earnestly. “And we think he’s here—somewhere in the casino.”
“You mean staying here?” Floyd asked. “I mean, we know he came to the opening night because of the article, right?”
“Yeah, but something he said…” She shook her head, blonde hair swinging. “It sounded like he’s been coming back to the show every night. Mr. Kermit and Scooter are, like, trying to track down the ticket sales, but the rest of us are spreading out to look for him.” She looked up at him again, dark lashes curling against her pale face. “Will you come with me to look? I feel kindof creepy about it all.”
“Where’s Clifford?” Floyd asked, and then wondered who the heck had said that. Janice’s face registered confusion, then her cheeks flushed with color.
Guilt, Floyd guessed (and correctly, it turned out) and felt his spirits plummet.
“Like, I don’t know,” Janice said, half-turning away. Oh! He knew! He had to know! Janice thought wretchedly. She should have stayed clear of Floyd—Floyd who knew her so very well—until everything had come out in the open, but she had so wanted his help, and his comfort.
“Never mind,” she said hurriedly. “I’ll just—“
“No—wait. I—I’ll come with you,” Floyd mumbled. He unhooked his guitar strap and laid the instrument down tenderly and with more sluggishness than was required, cursing himself for an idiot. But when he looked up, he was rewarded against all expectations with the tentative welcome on Janice’s smile.
“Good,” she said softly. And smiled at him.
Out on the African veldt, the lines between predator and prey are pretty well delineated. In the concrete jungle, the lines can blur. Although he had been playing an elaborate and dangerous game of cat and mouse with his boss for some time, Scribbler had no reason to suspect that—in the outside world—he had been shifted from one group to the other. He made his way through the buffet line filled with equal parts satisfaction—his story had certainly gotten a look of shocked approval from his boss—and self-loathing. He heaped croutons on his salad and thought with a start that he actually felt hungry for a change. Hmmm. Life did seem better when you weren’t getting most of your vitamins in liquid form. Who’d have thunk it?
His musings were cut short by the conversation going on in front of him at the dessert table.
“Did you see that weird blue thing?” asked the white-haired older man.
His companion, dark-haired with more than a little help from Grecian formula, craned his skinny neck back the way they had come.
“Must have missed it,” he said. “I got the oatmeal.”
“No on the buffet, you buffoon,” said his companion irritably. “I meant this morning at breakfast.”
“What?” the second man said, knocking the side of his head as though to adjust a hearing aid. “I can barely remember what I had for lunch, much less breakfast.”
The first gentleman humpfed in frustration, then turned and practically bellowed in his buddy’s ear.
“That weird blue thing—the one that was always eating something combustible or falling off of something. You know—the one with the defective trumpet.”
“Oh,” he companion said at last. “Oh! The weird one.”
“One of them anyway,” the mustachioed man muttered. “Did you see him at breakfast this morning?”
Scribbler was now listening intently, following the two senior citizens as closely as he dared without actually stepping on their shuffling heels. This sounded promising, he thought. These two old guys had been patrons of a sort for Kermit the Frog and his little cadre of entertainers for years—they’d even managed to get themselves a cameo as two decrepit old coots in one of the movies. They were bound to have some juicy tidbits if he kept his ears open. He piled a banana and a kiwi on his plate, unaccountably thinking of that crazy scientist and his odd friend, while he shadowed the two tottering old men.
“No—can’t say that I did. What was he doing? Trying to shoot himself out of a toaster?”
They laughed uproariously, and Scribbler thought, Geez—leave comedy to the bears, won’t you?
“Noo,” the fist man said at last. “He was there in the café with that rat and that little cockroach. They were asking around about some guy.”
Scribbler’s stomach, which seconds ago had joyfully anticipated his mound of food, plummeted suddenly into his shoes.
“Maybe they were looking for someone with talent!” the second man crowed, and they laughed their familiar laugh again. Scribbler didn’t feel like joining in.
“I think they were looking for that guy that used to hang around the studio.”
Not only was Scribbler loosing his appetite for breakfast, but his last meal was threatening to defect as well. He craned his ears and stood very, very still, every instinct poised for flight.
“Which one—the redheaded kid?”
“No, you imbecile—that’s the frog’s secretary, now. I mean the ham’s little hanger-on.”
“You mean the pig’s little hanger-on?”
“Same difference,” the man said, and they laughed out of habit more than mirth.
“What was he—some sort of writer or something?”
“Newscaster,” said the first one vaguely. Then, “No—that’s not right. A newspaper man—I think. Eh, it’s been too long, and my memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“Neither are your jokes,” muttered the second man, but when the first man swung around to look at him he did his best to look innocent.
They tottered off toward their table, bickering amicably.
Scribbler had an awful moment standing there. It was like that nerve-banishing trick of imagining everyone in the audience in their underwear, only in reverse. He looked around carefully for any sign of any muppet or person who might know him on sight, feeling horribly exposed and vulnerable. To his relief, no one seemed to take the slightest interest in him as he slunk off toward the door—that is, until the waitress hollered at him and demanded he pay for his food or she’d call security. Flushed and humiliated, Scribbler dug a bill out of his pocket and flicked it at the gingham-ed serving girl before slipping out the door and making his furtive way back to his room.
“—sorry that this is happening, Mr. the Frog,” Jack Littleton said solemnly, “but unless they pay with a credit card, we don’t have any way of tracking ticket sales to individuals. It’s not like we’re an airline.” He smiled and spread his hands, indicating his helplessness and perhaps his regret over it. “Some of our ticket sales are to individuals, but not all. Some of our purchasers are corporations—you know, that give them out to big-wig clients and such.” Kermit had already realized mid-rant that there probably wasn’t anything anyone could do, but it had felt good to fuss and fume. He smiled as graciously as he was able when he felt like punching something, hoping he wasn’t living up to the tabloid depictions of himself as an unreasonable despot. Mr. Littleton came around and patted Kermit on the back.
“I can beef up security if you want…” he offered.
“No,” said Kermit morosely, then shook his head and made his voice sound light and regretful and professional. “No, no, Jack—you’ve done enough. More security isn’t the issue—this isn’t even your problem. I just--”
Jack squatted beside Kermit’s chair so they were more or less eye-to-eye. “Look, Kermit. It doesn’t matter if this is our problem. If it’s your problem, we want to help.”
“Gee, that’s very nice of you but I don’t think—“
“Um, boss?”
Scooter had been silent for a great deal of the meeting, scribbling notes frantically as the two men conversed, but now he spoke with a voice that, for all its polite tentativeness, made itself heard.
Two heads swiveled to look at him.
“Yes, Scooter?” said Kermit, recognizing the look on Scooter’s face. “You have something?”
“I might,” said Scooter. He turned his attention to Mr. Littleton’s face. “I don’t need access to your confidential files or anything,” he said earnestly, “but if you could get me the data of ticket sales for more than four consecutive nights to individuals or corporations, I might be able to figure out if he’s coming back.”
Mr. Littleton looked surprised, then grinned and straightened. “No problem, Mr. Grosse—let me get my secretary right on that.”
Scooter smiled and felt some of the tight coil of tension in his gut ease. If he could find what he was looking for—if he could figure out what to look for—then he might be able to predict whether or not Fleet Scribbler was planning on coming back to any future shows. What he couldn’t figure out—and didn’t want to think about at all—was what they were going to do about it if he did.
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Sesame Street Season 54
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Sam and Friends Book
Heh, I added yeh to Facebook--you have such lovely red hair, Ruh! 
You have an amazing ability to paint such vivid pictures with words -it just makes me smile. Just..brava, that's all I can say. Brava.