‘The Iron Curtain’.  He lisped, “Something so secret that only the top, top officials are allowed to know.”

 

“Oh.  You don’t know either, huh, sir?”

 

“No!  The High Marshall said I didn’t need to know.”  Disgruntled, Spigot kicked the Iron Curtain.  “Ow!”  Clutching at his sore foot, he hopped around in pain.

 

“I have some salve,” Dunder offered helpfully.

 

“It’ll take more than salve if the thing behind the Iron Curtain gets stolen.”

 

“You mean like all the bologna and bathtubs and blindfolds that were stolen from the other warehouses recently?”

 

“Yes! And if what’s in this warehouse gets stolen the High Marshall said that,” Spigot gulped, “I would be shot.”

 

“Then we’d better make sure it doesn’t get stolen.”

 

“Exactly!”  As he paced, Spigot tapped his riding crop against the Iron Curtain, creating a rhythmic, metallic clank.  “I want ten, no, twenty, no, a whole platoon of armed guards surrounding this place night and day!”

 

Sgt. Dunder consulted his clipboard.  “All the platoons are patrolling the borders and the city, sir.”

 

“Oh...a couple of tanks then.”

 

Flipping through a few pages on the clipboard, Dunder said, “All the tanks are in for routine repairs, sir.”

 

“They were in for routine repairs two months ago!”

 

“The parts were stolen, sir,” Dunder said apologetically.  “There is one tank left, but it’s being used for the firing squad.”

 

“We definitely can’t use that one, not with the ratings for This Was Your Life going through the roof.”  Spigot thoughtfully tapped at his temple with riding crop.  Then he tapped too hard and winced.  But all that tapping must have unleashed an idea, for he shouted, “I’ve got it!”

 

“Sir?”

 

“You.” Spigot slowly, deliberately pointed his riding crop at Sgt. Dunder.

 

“Me, sir?”

 

“Yes, you will stay here and personally guard this warehouse.” 

 

“Yes, sir.”  Dunder cast a curious glace at the curtain.

 

“And no peeking behind the Iron Curtain!”  Col. Spigot snapped, punctuating his order with a door slam.

 

Higher for Hire
The Following Wednesday

 

Wildcat perched on a crate beside Rebecca’s desk, liberally lubing a piece of machinery while listening to his boss woo a prospective client over the phone.

 

“Yes, I realize that, Mr. Bearenstein,” Rebecca said in the honeyed voice she reserved for potential clients.  “We may be a small, family business, but I can give you my full assurance that Higher for Hire always acts in the most profitable...er, professional manner...You will?” she whooped.  Embarrassed by her unprofessional outburst, she said staidly, “I mean, we’d be very happy to deliver your Sudsy-Wudsy Soap Flakes on December 24th.  Let me get all your information down in my appointment book.” 

 

Looking like Christmas had come early, she unlocked her desk drawer and took out her Very-Private-Trespassers-Will-Be-Shot calendar just as the radio on her desk crackled to life. 

 

“Sea Duck callin’ Higher for Hire.”

 

“Not now, Baloo...” the petite bearess muttered under her breath. Covering the phone’s mouthpiece she pointed to the radio and hissed, “Wildcat, answer that!”

 

“Come in, Higher for Hire,” the voice on the radio said again, more urgently this time. “This is the Sea Duck.”

 

Wildcat plunked the oilcan and greasy part down on the desk, swiped his hands across his overalls to partially clean them, and picked up the microphone.  “Gee, Sea Duck, you sound just like Baloo.”

 

“Because it is Baloo.”

 

“Hey, I’m real glad you called, ‘cause I got a question for you.  What do flies eat?  Because I need to get some bait for when you and me and Kit go fly-fishing this weekend.”

 

“Fly-fishin’ ain’t fishin’ for flies.  It’s...aw!” Baloo let out a frustrated growl. “Just put Becky on, will ya?  It’s an emergency!”

 

Rebecca hung up the phone, beaming about Higher for Hire’s latest client acquisition.  She held out her hand for the microphone.  “I can talk to him now, Wildcat.  You go do...whatever it is you’re doing.”  She was so happy even the parts dripping grease on her desk didn’t bother her.

 

“I’m trying to reattach the whatchamacallit to the whoosis on my washing machine, but they get along better if they’re real slippery.”  He scooped up his equipment and gave her a cheerful wave good-bye as he headed for the door.  “See you later, Miz Cunningham.”

 

“Now I know why they call mechanics ‘grease monkeys’.”  She gave the filthy mike a swipe with her handkerchief before pushing the transmit button.  “Rebecca here.”

 

“Before ya start yellin’, Becky, lemme explain.”

 

“Explain what?”

 

“Flamingos!”

 

“Flamingos?”  Rebecca’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Between the grease on her hands and this conversation, her mood was quickly taking a nosedive.  “Baloo, if this is another one of your lame excuses I’m going to strangle you then revive you so I can strangle you again.”

 

“It ain’t a lame excuse.  Remember those stupid pink flamingo lawn ornaments you used to have me deliver to Thembria over and over so’s they could paint ‘em blue and sell ‘em back to Cape Suzette?”

 

“Until Khan Industries undercut us on the contract.  Don’t remind me. Three hundred dollars a month, a sure thing, down the drain!” she lamented.

 

“Yeah, well, the head guy at the Ministry of Lawn Ornaments let a plane full of ‘em barge in front of me at the unloading dock and that’s why I’m...”

 

“Late,” Rebecca concluded with the longsuffering sigh of one who had heard it all before.  Feeling a headache coming on, she put a hand to her forehead.  “Oh...” She groaned in annoyance as she wiped the smudge off her face with her grease-spotted handkerchief.

 

“And you said if I was late with any of this week’s shipments, you wouldn’t buy me burgers on Friday night.  You know ol’ Baloo never passes up a chance for a free meal.”

 

“You don’t pass up a chance for any meal.”

 

“Hey, I resemble that remark!”

 

“You certainly do, flyboy.”  Her smirk gave way to seriousness.  “Are you sure you’re telling the truth about the flamingos?”

 

“The truth and nothin’ but.”

 

“Fine.  I’ll call Honcho’s and explain why their ponchos are being delivered a couple of hours late.”

 

“Thanks, Beckers, you’re a pal.”

 

“I know.” Her eyes fell on her calendar.  The last appointment for Friday was: ‘Date with Baloo’ encircled by red heart.  Ruefully, she added, “That’s all I’ll ever be.”

 

“What was that last bit?”

 

Rebecca could have kicked herself over that little slipup. She had tried so hard to hide her feelings for Baloo, and she had almost blown it in a few careless words.  To cover her embarrassment, she upped her prickly, picky supervisor act.  “I said, no more late shipments!  If Higher for Hire is going to take full advantage of the Christmas rush, you’re going to have to do a little rushing yourself, buster!”

 

“Hey, I won’t disappoint you, boss lady. I’ll deliver everythin’ else on time, down to the last partridge in a pear tree.  Sea Duck out.”

 

Addressing the framed picture of the Higher for Hire gang on the corner of her desk, she said wistfully,  “I sure hope you do, Baloo.” 

 

Louie’s Place
Friday Afternoon

 

Baloo staggered into Louie’s nightclub under the weight of variously sized crates and packages.  He precariously picked a path through the maze of tables, narrowly avoiding collision with a simian waiter with a tray full of drinks, a dancing couple, and a pyramid built out of glasses.

 

“Hey, Louie, I got your...”

 

“Shh!” the pilot patrons admonished from where they were clustered around the radio on the bar.

 

Baloo pushed his way through the crowd and plunked his load down, making the frothy fruit drinks and ice cream concoctions on the bar jump.  “What gives?”

 

“This gives.  Listen.”  Louie turned up the volume.

 

Over the radio came:  “This

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