Flash Fiction: FRANK JR. -or- Skyler Hobbs and the Thousand Regrets

(NOTE: This is in response to Patti Abbott's challenge to write a tale of a thousand words or less titled "Frank, Jr.," or in this case, "Frank Jr." - because all those before and after commas drove me crazy. You'll find links to more "Frank, Jr." stories HERE.)

The man on the phone said, “Frank Jr. has been kidnapped!”

“It’s for you,” I told Skyler Hobbs, and listened in while they talked.

All Hobbs could get out of our caller was an address and the promise of a thousand dollar fee. Still, that was enough. Hobbs may be nuts—he does, after all, insist he’s the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes—but he knows the value of a dollar, especially when it has 999 friends.

Twenty minutes later, a woman with haunted eyes ushered us into a living room where a man sat hunched over, his face buried in his hands.

“Frank,” the woman said gently, “the detectives are here.”

“Detective,” I corrected her, pointing at Hobbs. I gave her one of my Computer Doctor cards. “I’m Jason Wilder, his faithful Indian companion.”

Frank regarded us through red-rimmed eyes. “Please. You have to bring Frank Jr. home safe.”

“Kidnapping,” Skyler Hobbs began, “is a job for—”

“Yeah,” Frank said, “I watch TV, but so does the kidnapper. He said no police. I want you to handle the exchange, with no attempt at heroics. Will you?”

A thin teenaged boy slouched into the room, smirked at Frank, and turned the smirk on us.

I said, “We’ll do whatever it takes to bring your son home safely.”

The teenager made an ugly sound that might have been a laugh.

The woman whimpered.

Frank said, “Uh . .  Frank Jr. is not exactly my son.”

#

I said, “This is the dumbest damn case you’ve ever dragged me into. Whoever heard of a kidnapped plant?”

We sat in my blue PT Cruiser, engine idling, behind a second-rate strip mall.

Hobbs sighed. “Frank Jr. is hardly just a plant. It is a previously unknown variety of the Titan Arum, one with blue rather than red foliage. It is certain to cause a sensation among horticulturists around the world.” He flourished the photo we’d been given. Frank Jr. looked like an erect penis growing out of a blue lettuce leaf.

“Spare me the sales pitch,” I said. “I want half that thousand buck fee.”

Following the kidnapper’s demands, we had left fifty thousand of Frank’s unmarked dollars in a gym bag behind a Dumpster at the far end of the mall. Contrary to Frank’s instructions, though, Hobbs was determined to catch the culprit. I’d set up a small wireless camera, and we now watched the scene on my laptop.

“Besides,” I said. “It was obviously the boy.”

“And how did you make that deduction?”

“Hell, you saw him laughing up his sleeve. He’s jealous of the old man’s obsession with that plant, and dreamed up this goofy stunt for revenge.”

Hobbs nodded. “You grow more observant, Doctor. But what of the $50,000? Do you assume the lad plans to spend it on rock and roll records and entertaining his friends at the malt shop, or wherever it is young hooligans congregate these days?”

Just then, a dark figure in a hoodie moved across the computer monitor.

“Hurry, Watson! The game is afoot!”

“Wilder,” I grumbled. I floored the Cruiser and we roared down the alley, catching the dark figure in the headlights.

Hobbs shouted, “Stop where you are! The doctor has a revolver, and will not fail to use it!”

That was a lie, on both counts, but it worked. Our quarry stood cringing as Hobbs and I approached.

Hobbs drew back the sweatshirt’s hood.

The words I told you so died on my lips.

The plantnapper was not Frank’s son. It was his wife.

#

“Why?” Hobbs said when we had both her and Frank Jr. in the Cruiser.

“You saw how Frank is. Nothing is too good for his goddamned plants, but Ronnie and I might as well be invisible. Ronnie’s about to graduate from high school, and Frank won’t even discuss sending him to college.”

Hobbs’ eyes bored into her. “So you devised a plan to secure his tuition.”

“And I’d have gotten away with it,” she said bitterly, “if not for you.”

#

Frank answered the door, hope and fear competing for control of his face. “Where’s Frank Jr.?”

Hobbs stood with one hand behind his back. His face was somber. “I am sorry to say that the plantnapper made off with the ransom money.”

“I don’t care about that. Did you get my plant?”

Hobbs nodded, a bit sadly. “I did, but regret that I must forego my fee. Frank Jr. was injured in the exchange, and is somewhat the worse for wear.”

Frank’s lip trembled. His face turned pasty white.

Hobbs brought the hand out from behind his back. It held a limp and bedraggled thing that might have once been a plant—a plant that had been run over by a truck, hacked with a machete and stomped by a marching band.

Teenaged Ronnie, peering over Frank’s shoulder, began to laugh.

Frank fell to his knees, great sobs pouring from his chest.

Mrs. Frank looked from the plant to her son, and her eyes welled with tears. She sniffed.

Frank glanced up, his face red, and stared at her. Pushing himself erect, he put an arm around her shoulder. “You miss him, too, don’t you?”

She sniffed louder.

Frank hugged her close. “I didn’t realize how much you cared. But we’ll get through this together.”

Mrs. Frank looked pointedly at Ronnie.

Frank followed her gaze. “Yeah,” he said. “You, me, and What’s-his-name too.”

#

Back at 221B SW Baker Street, Hobbs gave the real Frank Jr., still in prime condition, a place of honor on the mantel.

I said, “Why’d you have to keep that thing? It smells like a dead 'possum.”

“Since I could not accept the fee,” Hobbs said, “I felt I deserved something for my trouble.”

“What about my trouble?”

“I have given that due consideration and reached an equitable solution.”

That perked me up. “You’re giving me five hundred bucks?”

“Better,” Hobbs said. “I am rechristening the plant. Henceforth it shall be called Jason Jr.”

###

© 2012 by Evan Lewis

The following Flash adventures of Skyler Hobbs are still online (each title links to the story):
Skyler Hobbs and the Man Who Couldn't Fly
Skyler Hobbs and the Man Who Smiled at Death
Skyler Hobbs and the Sweetest of Dreams
Skyler Hobbs and the Fate Worse than Scars
Skyler Hobbs and the Yuletide Terror

The following mostly-longer tales have appeared elsewhere:
Skyler Hobbs and the Rabbit Man - EQMM February 2010 (out of print)
Skyler Hobbs and the Cottingley Fairies - BEAT to a PULP: Round 2 (available HERE)
Skyler Hobbs and the Garden Gnome Bandit - EQMM Sept/Oct 2012 (available HERE)
Skyler Hobbs and the Rollback Bandit - Discount Noir (available HERE)
Skyler Hobbs and the Magic Solution - Grimm Tales (available HERE)

And for those of you who'd rather read the stories in Japanese, a couple of these have been translated by Toshiji Kawagoe:
Skyler Hobbs and the Rollback Bandit (Japanese version HERE)
Skyler Hobbs and the Man Who Couldn't Fly (Japanese version HERE)

More to come!

Scarry Night: Skyler Hobbs and the Fate Worse than Scars

“The police won’t help me, Mr. Hobbs,” Carole Levinson said. “You are my last hope.”

My friend Skyler Hobbs studied the reactions of the three men grouped behind Carole’s chair like courtiers. Her father, a stocky man gripping a shotgun, scowled and gritted his teeth. Brother Dougie, a pre-teen version of his father, wore an insolent smirk. Boyfriend Kevin, a gangly guy with a wispy mustache, kept his adoring eyes on Carole.

Carol herself hooked a fake red fingernail in the corner of mouth and looked forlorn. The effect was quite fetching, but entirely lost on Hobbs.

I said, “Have any of you gents seen this scar-faced guy, or does he only appear to Carole?”

Boyfriend Kevin bristled. “Are you implying she’s making this up?”

“I am quite sure,” Hobbs said, “that my friend the doctor meant no such thing.”

Brother Dougie snorted. “This dude’s a doctor?”

“Jason Wilder,” I said, “Computer Doctor,” and handed everyone present a business card. “Twenty percent off your first repair job.”

“Wait! Hobbs and Wilder?” Dougie began to cackle. “I read about these bozos in Discount Noir. The guy with the pointy nose thinks he’s the second coming of Sherlock Holmes.”

Hobbs pretended not to hear this, but the tips of his ears turned red. He said, “Miss Levinson, you say this scar-faced fellow normally peers into your living room window. Has he also appeared at others?”

“I saw him once from the dining room,” Carole said, “and once from the kitchen.”

“Just so,” Hobbs said. “If you gentlemen will be seated, I have a few questions. Then I ask that you return to you own homes while the doctor and I attempt to catch the culprit in the act.”

#

Two hours later Hobbs and I crouched in the bushes next to Carole’s apartment building.

We’d learned several things of dubious value. Carole’s father, for instance, had been opposed to her taking this apartment, and continually nagged her to return home. One reason she refused was that brother Dougie loved to torment her with practical jokes. The only hint of a suspect came from boyfriend Kevin, who said a registered sex offender lived nearby.
   
“So,” I whispered, “you really think it’ll be this easy? We just wait for Peeping Scarface to show up and grab him?”

Hobbs turned to face me, and the moonlight outlined a smile I knew all too well—a smile  that said, You’re a fine fellow, Watson, but thick as a brick.

“Wilder,” I said, as if he’d spoken aloud. I would have said more, but The Outer Limits theme burst from my cell phone, meaning I had an unknown caller.

A voice asked for Hobbs. I handed him the phone.

After a moment he said, “I understand, Detective. We shall be there directly.”

“What?” I said.

Hobbs stepped out of the shadows. “The police need my assistance on another case,” he said, not bothering to whisper. “I fear Miss Levinson’s prowler will have to wait.”

I balked. “You go. I’ll stay on watch.”

“No,” Hobbs said firmly. “I cannot do without my Watson.”

“Wilder,” I said with a sigh. But I went.

#

Five minutes later, I was more at sea than ever. We’d sped off in my PT Cruiser, covering only two blocks before  Hobbs directed me to turn and circle back to Carole’s building.

“What about the cops?”

“A necessary subterfuge,” he said, but would say no more.

Parking nearby, we were soon back on station, now at the opposite end of the yard.

Almost at once, a dark form detached itself from the shadows and glided to Carole’s living room window. After a moment it moved on to the dining room, and finally the kitchen.

The light from the kitchen window illuminated the side of the prowler’s face, and even at twenty feet I recoiled at the livid, angry scars.

“Now,” Hobbs whispered, and spurted silently toward our quarry. I scrambled after.

Warned by some sound, the man spun away. But Hobbs’ headlong dive caught him by the knees, and I dipped my shoulder, smashing into him like a linebacker. The guy flopped over backwards, squealing like a stuck pig.

Almost instantly, Carole was there. “You got him! Who is he?”

While I sat on the guy’s chest, pinning him, Hobbs rose and dusted himself off.

“Can you not guess?”

I studied the scarred face. The eyes rolled wildly about, but the rest of the features were still.

“It's a Halloween mask,” I said. “But who’s wearing it?”

“The only one of our suspects tall enough to peer into the kitchen window,” Hobbs said. He bent and ripped the mask free.

“Oh, my god!” Carole dropped to her knees next to the prowler. “Why?”

“You’re not safe here alone,” boyfriend Kevin said with a sob. “I wanted you to move in with me.”

Carole’s face softened. She stroked his cheek. “You did that for me? You love me that much?”

Hobbs wrinkled his nose. I didn’t blame him. I rolled off Kevin’s chest.

“I’m truly touched,” Carole told Kevin, “but you are one sick son of a bitch!” And her claws came out, raking him first across one cheek, then back across the other, while his pitiful howls pierced the night.

#

When we visited the hospital, Kevin’s face was swathed in bandages. Except for the scars, which he would bear for the rest of his days, he was expected to make a full recovery. Both he and Carole had decided not to press charges.

Still, the guy was down in the dumps.

“Look on the bright side,” I said. “Next time you want to scare somebody, you won’t need a mask.”

Kevin almost smiled. “I really don’t mind the scars. They’re nothing compared to a broken heart.”

Hobbs was aghast. “Despite this experience, you still profess love for that woman?”

“We do not choose who to love, Mr. Hobbs. Love chooses us, and we are mere slaves to its power.”

Hobbs' lips tightened. His skin paled. He turned and strode briskly from the room. I ran to catch up.

“Doctor,” he said, “do have your trusty revolver handy?”

“You know damn well,” I said, “that I do not own a gun.”

“Then you had best acquire one. If I ever fall prey to this disease called love, I demand that you shoot me at once!”

###

© 2011 by Evan Lewis


"Skyler Hobbs and the Fate Worse than Scars" is my answer to Patti Abbott's Scarry Night Flash Fiction Challenge, in which we were to write a story containing the line I really don't mind the scars.

For links to the other stories, proceed to pattinase!

Flash Fiction Challenge: Skyler Hobbs and the Sweetest of Dreams

“That’s her,” our client said

I stared, trying not to leer.

Red-orange tresses danced about the girl’s head like flames, singeing the air as she swept into the bar. A sleeveless dress, translucent as a tropical sea, coalesced about her hips and breasts. Music throbbed from hidden speakers as if announcing her arrival: Sweet dreams are made of this. She moved with a swaying stride that sucked eyes from the sockets of every guy in the place.

Every guy, I noticed, including Mr. Skyler Hobbs.

I grinned, because until now Hobbs' interest in women had been confined to the criminal use of feminine wiles. Skyler Hobbs, you see, entertains the delusion that he is the honest-to-god reincarnation of the great detective Sherlock Holmes.

Our client, a stuffy accountant named Peter Peterson, was likewise affected, but his lustful expression was tinged with horror.

“You see?” he said. “Dressed like a skank, and frequenting a dive like this!”

The dive was a Portland, Oregon institution known as the Queen of Hearts, and while it was hardly a hangout for the upper crust, it was no worse than a hundred other neighborhood bars.

Hobbs set aside the copy of Mississippi Vivian he'd been reading. “Does she always look so . . . provocative?”

“The Grace I know,” Peterson said, “has never exhibited so much as a bare shoulder in my presence.”

I said, “And you’ve been engaged how long?”

Peterson’s cheeks colored, looking incongruous with his tough guy appearance. Feeling their normal attire would invite undue attention, Hobbs had outfitted Peterson and himself accordingly. Hobbs wore black jeans with rusty studs, a too-small Metallica T-shirt and a necklace made from a Budweiser caps. Spiked hair and a nose ring completed the look. Peterson looked equally ridiculous. I wore my everyday Jason Wilder—Computer Doctor clothes: chinos and a sweatshirt bearing a discreet Rogue Fish Tale Ale logo.

The mystery was this: After a six-month engagement to a demure brunette with a city government job, Peterson had discovered that by night she became this flame-haired clockstopper. Baffled, he’d followed her several times to this bar, but had been afraid to enter.

The lady in question eased into a booth with three burly bikers and squirmed from lap to lap. Within minutes she had one of them in hand, leading him out the back door to the alley.
   
I pushed my chair back, assuming we’d follow, but Hobbs stopped me. “Not yet, Doctor. Let us await further developments.”
   
We did. Ten minutes later she breezed back in, this time joining a group of guys who persisted, long after the style was dead, in wearing their baseball caps backwards. In short order she’d cut one from the herd and led him outside.
   
Hobbs’ eyebrows went up. He seemed perplexed. Peterson wrinkled his nose, looking more miserable than ever.
   
I leaned close and said a few words into Hobbs’ ear. His eyes went wide. “No! Not her. I refuse to believe it. I have another theory, but it must be tested.”
   
Upon her next return, Hobbs and I were waiting near the back door. Blocking her path, Hobbs executed a short bow.
   
“Pardon me,” he said. “Would you care to accompany me outside?” He extended an arm like a boy scout ready to escort a lady across the street.  
   
The girl took a step back, surveyed his costume and laughed. “What did you have in mind?”
   
Hobbs smiled and winked. “Merely a stroll in the moonlight, I assure you.”
   
“No thanks.”
   
Hobbs turned to me. “Would you care to try?”
   
I stepped up and whispered in her ear, steeling myself for a slap. Instead, she grabbed my hand and dragged me toward the door.
   
Once outside she said, “Turn around, lover. I have a surprise for you.”
   
I turned, tingling with anticipation, and next thing I knew she’d snapped handcuffs on me and thrust me into the back of a panel van. 
   
“Hello, scumbag,” said a grinning police officer. “You have the right to remain silent.”
   
I said something unprintable.
   
“A sting operation,” said a familiar voice. “You have confirmed my suspicions, Watson!” 
   
“Wilder,” I said under my breath, and twisted to see Hobbs and Peterson standing behind the redhead.
   
The girl’s mouth fell slack as she stared at our client. “Peter?”
   
“Hello, Grace.  I’m relieved to learn the truth about your… activities. But the engagement is off.  I cannot envision life with an undercover policewoman.” 
   
There was more talk, and a tear or two was shed, but in the end Peterson was gone and I was released.
   
“I knew it was a bad match,” the redhead said, “but in my line of work, I don’t meet many nice men.” She stretched up to kiss Hobbs lightly on the cheek. “Like you.”
   
Hobbs blushed furiously, and though he tried hard not to smile, his lips betrayed him.
   
“But what I really need,” the girl said, “is a guy who’s only half nice.” She pulled my face to hers, uncorking a kiss so soulful it curled my socks. I was still woozy when she pressed a business card into my hand. “Call me,” she said. “Sweet dreams.”
   
I licked my lips as the van pulled away, her last words throbbing in my brain. Sweet dreams.
   
“You will note, Doctor, that I was correct." Hobbs' voice was oddly constrained. "That girl could never perform the disgusting acts you suggested.” 
   
I was about to say, Not to strangers, anyway, but caught myself. Hobbs’ eyes were fixed on the card in my hand, and one of those eyes seemed to glisten.
   
“You’re right,” I said. “She’s a nice girl. Too nice for me.” And though it took every ounce of will, I tore the card into tiny pieces. “What is it they say about the sweetest of dreams, Hobbs?”
   
“They are those always just beyond our grasp.”
   
“Yeah,” I said, watching the bits of paper flutter to the ground. “Ain’t it the truth.”

###

© copyright 2010 by Evan Lewis
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For links to more stories in today's Sweet Dreams Flash Fiction Challenge, visit Patti Abbott's pattinase or Gerald So's If You Want to Know About My Life.

Please pay special attention to tales by two of my fellow critique groupers:

Looking for Something by R.L. Kelstrom

Beadie and the Blesser by Kassandra Kelly

More adventures of Skyler Hobbs and Doctor Wilder:

Skyler Hobbs and the Rabbit Man

Skyler Hobbs and the Rollback Bandit

Skyler Hobbs and the Man Who Couldn't Fly

Skyler Hobbs and the Man Who Smiled at Death
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FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE: Skyler Hobbs and the Man Who Smiled at Death

c

“The widow spoke the truth,” Skyler Hobbs said. “That fellow looks positively gleeful.”

The subject of Hobbs’ remark sat to our right and one pew ahead, beaming like he’d won the Megabucks lottery. His eyes glowed a brilliant blue behind his thick spectacles, and gold-capped teeth glinted through his bristling white beard. The other funeral goers had cleared a wide space around him, focusing their attention in other directions.

“He looks happier than SpongeBob SquarePants,” I said. “Maybe he’s just nuts.”

“A distinct possibility, Watson, but I sense deeper waters here.”

“Wilder,” I said. “Jason Wilder, Computer Doctor.” But I knew it was pointless to correct him. Skyler Hobbs, you see, thinks he’s the second coming of Sherlock Holmes, and that I’m his Dr. Watson.

Organ music swelled, and from a room behind the choir came Hobbs’ client, Mrs. Charles Winkleman, dressed in a slinky black shift. Though her face was drawn, she was remarkably good-looking for a woman on the plus side of sixty.

She’d come to us two days before, and Hobbs was instantly intrigued. Her husband had perished in a grease fire while working his burger wagon on the downtown bus mall. The police had found no sign of foul play, and the widow had just begun to grieve when the smiling man appeared. She saw him outside the funeral parlor, in the meat department at Zupan’s Market, and in Mt. Scott Park while walking her wiener dog. She even saw him standing outside her house, just watching and smiling like the devil. And each time she’d tried to approach him, the fellow simply scurried away.

There was something oddly familiar about him, Mrs. Winkleman declared, but could not put her finger on it. And she had come to fear for her safety.

Watching the old coot’s reaction to the eulogies, I couldn’t blame her. When the preacher declared the Lord had His own reasons for taking the deceased into His bosom, the guy beamed as if he’d just been named King of the World, and when Winkleman’s sister broke into tears over a poignant tale, the guy actually licked his lips and chortled.

When it was finally over, we followed Mr. Happy up the aisle and down the hall to the reception, where a somber crowd munched stale cookies and conversed in low tones.

Hobbs paid special attention to an easel displaying photos of the deceased. He’d been a smooth-faced fellow with close-cropped hair, and in the shots where he wasn’t wearing sunglasses, he displayed remarkably blue eyes.

Hobbs turned from the easel looking enormously pleased with himself.

“So,” I said, “you’ve got it figured. What’s the poop?”

As was his habit, Hobbs wasted no time with explanations. Crooking a finger, he weaved a path through the mourners and planted himself before the smiling man. “So,” he said, “I perceive you have been quite enjoying yourself today.”

The fellow nodded with enthusiasm. “Quite.”

“Liked the eulogies, did you? Reveled in the grief expressed by Winkleman’s friends and relatives.”

“I did.”

The widow, I saw, had now entered the room, and stopped to watch the confrontation.

“And I suppose you think I find that odd,” Hobbs said.

The fellow beamed. “Don’t you?”

“Not at all,” Hobbs said, “for I have discovered your secret. You, sir, are Mr. Charles Winkleman in disguise!” And with that, he grabbed the guy’s whiskers in both hands and yanked.

The man stopped smiling. His mouth formed a huge O as he let loose a scream.

Hobbs looked astonished to see the beard still attached to the guy’s face. Then he gave a howl of his own, as the man kicked him in the shins and began pummeling him about the head.

Releasing the whiskers, Hobbs thrust his right leg backwards and cocked an arm in a peculiar manner.

I jumped on Hobbs' back, pinning his arms. I’d recognized the stance of the exotic martial art he called baritsu, and was afraid the bearded man would be seriously injured. As Hobbs struggled, the old guy continued to rain blows upon him until the widow’s sharp cry blistered our ears.

“Enough!”

Hobbs stopped struggling, and the old man seemed to deflate. He folded up on himself, trying to avert his face.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Mrs. Winkleman snapped. “This man is not my husband!”

Hobbs seemed incapable of speech.

After a moment, the old man mumbled, “No Mabel, I’m not. But I’d like to be.”

She stared at him, a riot of emotions flitting across her face. At last she reached out, removed his thick spectacles, and brushed the scraggly hair aside. A small gasp escaped her lips.

“Harold?  Is that you?”

“Who else,” he said, “has waited forty years to claim your hand?”

“Just as I suspected!” Hobbs declared. “Madam, you may expect my bill in the post.”

And though Hobbs was eager to go, I refused to budge until I got the whole story. The two had been high school sweethearts and were parted when Harold was sent to Viet Nam. He’d returned to find Mabel married to Charles Winkleman, and pined for her ever since. On hearing she’d been widowed he could not contain his joy, but had feared to approach her directly.

He needn’t have. Mabel was clearly pleased to see him, and I had a feeling this same church would soon be ringing wedding bells.

“So,” I said later to Hobbs, “you had that figured, did you?”

“Indubitably, Doctor. But since there was no way to prove it, I had to trick him into a confession.”

“A pat answer,” I said. “But I was watching your face when that beard stayed put, and you were the most surprised man on earth.” 

It was Hobbs’ turn to smile. “You flatter me, Watson. But you are correct. The stage lost a fine actor when I turned to a career in crime detection.”

###

© copyright 2010 by Evan Lewis

For more adventures of Skyler Hobbs and "Doctor" Wilder, click HERE.

Visit Dan O'Shea's Going Ballistic for links to more stories in today's "Mystery In Church" Flash Fiction Challenge.

Airport Flash Fiction Challenge: Skyler Hobbs and the Man Who Couldn't Fly

.

“Watson, look!” Skyler Hobbs pointed over my shoulder, his eyes distended. “That woman is a man!”

“The name’s Wilder,” I reminded him. “Jason Wilder.” Careful not to look, I turned him around and aimed him toward the airport security checkpoint. “This is Portland, Hobbs. We take pride in our diversity.”

“But, Doctor—”

“Computer Doctor. Now put your shoes in that plastic tub. You’re next.”

With a deep sigh, he complied. I sighed too. It would be a miracle if I got him past security, let alone onto an airplane. My friend Skyler Hobbs, you see, has never flown. You could hardly expect less from a man convinced he’s the reincarnation of Sherlock Holmes.

His shoes removed, Hobbs stood facing a fat man in Transportation Security Officer’s uniform.

The TSO looked at Hobbs’ feet. “Where’s your other sock?”

“Pinned to my fireplace, of course. Holding my shag tobacco."

The officer wrinkled his nose. “You’ll have to remove that leprechaun hat. And the horse blanket. Both go in the tubs.”

I steeled myself for trouble. Hobbs was quite proud of his deerstalker cap and Inverness cape.

“This is not mere raiment,” Hobbs said, “but part of my persona.”

“In the tubs,” the fat man said, “or you don’t fly.”

Hobbs glared back at me, his meaning clear. This was my fault. I was the one who’d sold the story of our first adventure to Ellery Queen, and no sooner had it appeared than a wacked-out dowager in Omaha had wired us first-class tickets, insisting we fly out to find her lost Chihuahua. Hobbs had balked, of course, but I’d reminded him that both our bank accounts were on death’s door.

Hobbs was unbuttoning his cape when he went stiff as a pointer, aimed a finger and said, “Look!”

As the security officer turned, Hobbs darted through the metal detector and slipped past him. The fat man scrambled after, shouting for assistance.

In an instant, three other TSOs joined the chase. But Hobbs stopped short, thrust his hand into the pocket of a traveler tying his shoes, and plucked out a plastic flask. “Inflammable liquid!” he crowed. “You’ve been derelict in your duty.”

The officers all scowled. One snatched the flask and sniffed it. "Bourbon." 

As the offender was hauled off for a cavity search, the fat TSO jabbed a finger at Hobbs. “One more stunt, and you’re on the No-Fly list.”

Hobbs stared back at him, refusing to be cowed. In the time I had known him, he had never betrayed a hint of fear.

“Back to the metal detector.” The man grabbed Hobbs by the arm. “We’re trying this again.”

Hobbs took one step. Then his head swiveled toward a busty blonde in a tight red sweater. “Wait!” Before the officer could react, Hobbs broke free and galloped toward the woman, arms outstretched.

And time seemed to stop. TSOs and travelers alike froze in astonishment as Hobbs’ hands closed upon the blonde’s ample bosom.

The woman shrieked, and time kicked into high speed. Security officers pounced on Hobbs from all directions, but he clung tenaciously to the woman’s breasts, and the whole crowd went down in a squirming heap.

A TSO yanked a Taser from his belt. I found my wits and dashed forward, yelling, “Stop!”

This got everyone’s attention just long enough for Hobbs to shout, “Look, Watson! She’s a man!”

“Wilder,” I said. But so she was. The blond wig had popped loose in the struggle, exposing a buzz cut. One breast perched on a shoulder, while the other dangled from an armpit.

The officers all stared, bewildered.

“Hobbs,” I said, “I told you this is Portland, and we—”

“Your diversity is all well and good,” Hobbs said. “But this fellow’s brassiere is stuffed with high grade cocaine.”

#

The guards who’d escorted us to the parking lot waited with hands on their holsters.

I fired up the PT Cruiser. “How did you know?”

“She had an Adam’s apple.”

“Not that. About the coke.”

“His nostrils.” Hobbs tapped his nose. “Caked with white crystals.”

“But you couldn’t have seen that until you’d grabbed him.”

“Let’s be underway, shall we?” Hobbs was smiling now, looking contented for the first time since we’d received the tickets. “I am quite famished after all that exercise.”

I stared at him. “You—you didn’t know…” I might have said more, but he was gazing out the car window, ignoring me.

And it suddenly came together. He hadn’t known about the coke. He’d thrown that wingding on purpose, because he wanted to be put on the No-Fly list. He was not quite as fearless as he seemed. Skyler Hobbs was afraid to fly!

I got the car moving. “What do we tell your client in Omaha?”

“Tell her she reads too many detective stories. And to look for her lost Chihuahua at the nearest Taco Bell.” He extracted the unused boarding pass from his pocket and waved it under my nose. “Tell me, Doctor. Are these tickets redeemable for cash?”

###

© 2009 by Evan Lewis

Note: The tale that so inspired the Omaha dowager appears in the Feb. 2010 issue of EQMM. Hobbs and Wilder's second adventure, Skyler Hobbs and the Rollback Bandit, appeared right here on the Almanack.

For links to other stories in the Steve Weddle Memorial Airport Flash Fiction Challenge, visit Dan O'Shea's Going Ballistic.