le voleu

Our tale begins at the center of security, a place close to the heart'it begins in the home. Not in your home, and certainly not in my home, but rather, it begins in the home of Carl McGreary, the Sheriff of Watson County, New Mexico, where he keeps the law locked as tight as he keeps the holster around his waist. Carl's third sense 1. subtly suggests the benefits of wakefulness before his alarm alerts him of the time. Undershirt, cotton overshirt (roll sleeves two times before noon, once more after, unroll twice after dinner), suede fringe vest (a gift from his buddy Man Who Walks Naked Under Moon), pants, boots (custom rattlesnake with a one and one-half inch lift), and the badge. The badge is Carl's North Star, his Bible (only after the words of Jesus Christ, amen), his future, his past, his child, his origin, his existence, his mistress, his responsibility, his duty, his gift. He's fully dressed now; once he puts his hat on he'll be ready to shoot any bank robbers, calm down any drunk outsiders, prevent any 12 o'clock showdowns, or to get an early whiskey. 'One can't rightly go out in day without their hat,'� Carl always says. Carl keeps his hat by the door. He sets out to the kitchen where he meets his wife for breakfast.
She (Sweet pea,) he 'Sugar plum,'� she (pumpkin dumplin,) he 'my honey bunch,'� she (No, you see, we need sweet peas, and I made pumpkin dumplins for breakfast,) he 'I knew that. Where's my hat?'� she (By the door. It's always by the door.)
An idea attacks his brain, an unusual occurrence for Carl. 'Hm, you know, I have this kinda itch in my head, tellin me that maybe I'd better drink two cups of coffee this mornin' ,'� he tells his wife between chews.
(Squeeters got ya bad last night?)
The napkin gains a transparent smudge where his mouth touches it. 'Sally-Josephine, I don't mean I got bug bites in my head; I mean I got me an idea.'� 2.
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1. The first sense being sight; the second sense being sound; the third sense being smell; the fourth being touch; the fifth being taste. Some say there is a sixth sense that enables life and death to communicate.
2. An abstract phenomenon that either enlightens like a light bulb or gnaws like a tick.
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(Well how's I 'spose to know? Don't look at me like I'm some dumb redbeard. I ain't dumb; you know in school the teachers always used to say to me how smart I was.) A smirk, heavily whiskered.
(So what about that idea?) 'What? Yeah, right, the idea'�well, it's a foggy one, at best. I can't tell you nothin' but that I got a feeling you might need to keep dinner warm in the oven. (Well now I'm sure this foggy idea of yours ain't nothin' the sun won't clear out. Oh my well will you look at that? The sun's already clear behind the church bell. You had better get a move on.) 'Yup, I reckon you're right.'� (You be careful now, you hear? And don't you go messin around with Rick's boys. Those guys ain't nothin' but trouble, and in a bad way, too.) 'I'll tell you, Rick's boys better not go messin with me. Bye, Sally-Jo.'�
The wind stirs sand and dust into all openings. Carl spits out a mixture of tobacco and sand; a grainy brown blob on the tan road. Arriving at the jail, he takes off his hat and suddenly recalls his foggy idea: the Texas Press editor is coming into town today on business, and it is Carl's responsibility to escort him for the day.
'How will I recognize him?'� Carl asks the town politician on his way to the train station.
'The telegram said he'll be holding an umbrella.3. A red umbrella. Don't ask me what the devil an umbrella is; all's I know is that he's got one. A red one,'� the town politician adds decisively.
Before reaching the station, Carl runs into the town entrepreneur.
'Why, if it isn't our town protector! Good to see you, Carl. Now I know your Sally-Jo knows how to put food on your plate, but you really ought to come by the restaurant sometime. Heck, why not come tonight? I've got a honey n' whiskey glazed mutton on the barbeque. And don't forget to bring along that darling wife of yours.'�
'Yea, maybe I will.'� Carl wonders whether or not to ask the entrepreneur if he knew what 'an umbrella' was, but decides against it. Instead, he asks, 'Will Rick be there?'�
'No, Sheriff. We don't serve those boys no more.'�
Carl smiles. 'Well now, that sure is good to hear.'� They tip their hats and walk in opposite directions.
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3. The Oxford English Dictionary defines an umbrella as 'A light hand-held device carried as protection against rain or strong sun, consisting of a usu. Circular canopy of fabric supported on a central stick; esp. one in which the fabric is mounted on a metal frame that can be collapsed to make a cylindrical shape.'�
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Arriving at the station, Carl notices his friend's horse tied up in front. 'Hey, Hobbs,'� Carl says, putting his hand to the horse's muzzle. Charlie, Hobbs' owner, is an old friend of Carl's. Charlie, the town drunk, can never hide his whereabouts, for there is no mistaking Hobbs, the only two-legged horse in all of Watson County, probably all of Texas for that matter .4. Some people think it cruel to continue riding Hobbs after the accident, but the people who know them best understand that it's Hobbs who refuses a life in pasture. Carl secretly thinks it was a little cruel to change his name from 'Lightening' to 'Hobbs' after the accident.
'Hey, Carl.'�
'Hey, Charlie.'�
'Busy day today; I'm pickin up the Captain of the Wave Cruiser. Guess he just got back from India. Reckon he brought back a bunch of stuff. Scarves, spices, a harem or two.'� He nudges Carl, grinning. 'Yup. He'll be here two, maybe three days. I figure he'll stay at the hotel. We'll probably get some drinks, maybe check out the rooms upstairs.'�
'Is that right? I myself am pickin someone up.'�
'You don't say?'�
'Yup, the editor of the Texas Press.'�
'Well I'll be. You ought to send 'im on over to Samuel Worthington. Let 'em talk about words.'� The two men laugh.
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4. In Texas' history, there have been 46 documented cases of two-legged horses. Of these, only five of them lived six months after their accidents, and of these five, only two were able to be ridden. Hobbs, owned by Charles R. Bumby, being one of the two.
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'Excuse me, does this red umbrella mean anything to either of you men?'� a bloated walrus asks them. He holds an upside-down cane topped with a curved red canopy. His gray skin folds into shadows, folds into slightly protruding limbs from his epic midsection, but, like a true walrus, he manages to keep his chest high and proper.
'Oh, yessir,'� Carl replies.
The walrus jams his pipe with tobacco. 'So, which one of you songbirds is my escort for the day?'�
'That'd be me, sir,'� says Carl, unconsciously rubbing his badge.
The walrus points to his bags, snorts twice in succession, and says, 'Let's get moving.'� Without waiting for Carl, the walrus begins wiggling and twisting his forked tail, gaining three inches of ground with each thrust. 'You know how I got to be where I am, son?'� he answers himself in the same breath. 'Work. Many years of back-breaking work. But I can't take all the credit, you see, it's in the blood. I'm related to Napoleon, ever heard of him? Great man. It's in my blood, son. Just where are you takin me?'�
'Well, I figure since you just traveled a whole night, you might want to sit down somewhere comfortable. Maybe have a drink,'� Carl suggests.
'Where're the whores at in this town?'� the walrus demands.
Carl grins. One of his front teeth carries a chip from the first time he cheated in cards.
Four whiskeys later, the walrus flop down the stairs.
'Let's go,'� he says to Carl. Once they walk through the saloon doors, the walrus whistles. 'Wooh-wee. That was some kind of whore. She sure had a lovely singin voice.'�
Looking down at the slimy mass waddling beside him, Carl asks, 'You hungry?'�
'I got pies and cakes and custards and puddings and all sorts of sweet things,'� the town baker says from behind the counter of the bakery stand that they happen to be walking by.
The walrus pokes his whiskered nose over the counter. 'You got any mud cake?'�
'No, sir, but I do have a lovely cherry pie saved specially for someone as lovely as you,'� flirts the town baker.
The walrus grumbles, 'That'll have to do.'�
'Well don't go and wet yourself in excitement! You make it sound like you're bout ready to be scalped,'� the baker giggles to the walrus, batting his doe eyes all the while.5.
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5. As a child, the town baker had recurring dreams where he would find a hole in his backyard, dive in, and become immersed in an underwater fantasy, complete with icicles and croquet. In the dreams, he is befriended by all aquatic creatures. These dreams were so real to the town baker that he still believes that his first kiss was with a sea lion.
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'WAGON TAXI! Rides anywhere in town that cost less than DIRT! Will accept alcohol in exchange for a ride!'� a voice screeches from down the road. The voice belongs to little Willy Star, a fourteen-year old wrangler who lost his herd near Watson County some nine months ago. Willy Star offers the only taxi in town, but most people don't use it on account of his appearance. Willy Star came from parents who are either very close kin, or are from an altogether different feather. His face is a mangle of bones, fur, flesh, and fangs. His profile matches the proportions of a hyena. His eyes, kept warm with the fur on his eyelids, never shiver. In good faith, a friend once told him he would benefit from keeping his nails filed down so they wouldn't be so claw-like, but Willy ignores the suggestion.
The walrus pays no mind to Willy Star's appearance. 'I prefer the right side,'� he informs Carl before hoisting himself into the wagon.
'We'd like a ride to the Gazette,'� Carl tells Willy Star.
The walrus turns to Carl, assessing him with a glance. 'What's your name, son?'� he asks Carl.
'Carl,'� says Carl.
'Tell me, Carl, what's your favorite part of a newspaper?'�
'To be honest, sir, I don't read newspapers. Sometimes Samuel Worthington reads the obituaries aloud if someone's gone missin; I guess I like those alright.'�
'Here we are, sirs. Your total comes to a few swigs from a jug, or anything else you can give me,'� Willy Star turns around and smiles with pointed teeth. The walrus shoves a bottle in his hand. 'Willy thanks you, sirs! Y'all be sure to think of Willy the next time you need a lift.'�
The Watson County Gazette is little more than a shack. Once inside, a beautiful young woman greets them. Though the town is small, Carl does not recognize her. 'Hello, gentlemen! You must be the editor of the Texas Press!'� she says to Carl. He shakes his head and the walrus straightens his trunk and coughs, slightly. She turns to face the walrus. 'Oh, I've been expecting you all morning! We're so glad to have you here at the Watson County Gazette. My name is Shirley. Just let me know what I can do to make your stay better.'� She winks.
After she leaves, the walrus asks Carl, 'Do you know how I got into this business, son?'�
'It's in your blood,'� Carl recalls.
'No, Napoleon's in my blood. I got started in this through the deaf! The mute!'�
'Through the mute?'� Carl repeats.
'That's right. My wife was mute, and for her, I invented Braille!'�
'You invented the Braille system?'� says Carl.
'Just about! Before me, nobody knew how to use it! So here I am today, Chief Editor of Texas Press. That's something to be proud of, I'll tell you.'� They look at the Gazette's surroundings in silence. Then the walrus breaks the calm. 'Do you know why I asked for a police escort?'� Carl shrugs. 'Now, I know this might sound crazy, but someone's trying to kill me. Two people, two very small, very'�green'� people, are trying to kill me. You see, I wrote an article awhile back about the legend of leprechauns, about how it's all tall tales and exaggerated lies, about how rainbows have a scientific explanation, and about the commonality of four-leaf clovers. Ever since that article printed, I see a flash of green in my peripheral vision. Now I scream like a newborn whenever I see a clover or a rainbow.'�
Carl studies the gears of a press, suppressing the urge to mock the walrus. He squeezes out the words, 'Don't worry, sir. I don't know of any leprechauns in this part. There are a few Irishmen, but I reckon they're pretty harmless. Either way, ain't no leprechauns gonna get near you in Watson County; not while I'm around.'� From outside they hear a loud thud followed by a series of softer thuds, and through the cracks in the door, Carl sees a flash of green. He repeats, 'No sir, ain't no leprechauns in Watson County.'�
Shirley comes up beside them. 'Would either of you like some coffee?'� she asks.
'Two sugars on the side,'� answers the walrus.
She brings over a cup of coffee with two sugar cubes on the saucer. He takes the sugar cubes, putting them both in his mouth, then motions for her to remove the untouched coffee.
'What've you guys got runnin front page?'� the walrus asks Shirley.
She draws a circle on the floor with her toes. 'You should really talk to the editor of the Gazette about that, I don't want to say the wrong thing and get anybody in trouble.'�
Nodding his head, the walrus says, 'Alright, fetch me the editor.'�
She frowns and draws a square. 'He's not here today. Must be on vacation or something; no one's seen him for 'bout two weeks.'�
'Better hope it's that, and not that he ran into Rick,'� says Carl.
'Well who in hell's been writin' and pressin the papers?'� spits the walrus.
'I have, sir. Been watchin' Billy run the Gazette near eight years; figured out how to do it myself pretty quick,'� she says quietly, forcing her feet to be still.
The mammoth blinks hard a few times. 'Right then, tell me 'bout the cover story.'�
'Well sir, it's a 'Wanted: Reward' piece.'�
'Who is the bandit?'�
'He calls himself le Voleu. It's French for 'the thief.' Rumored to be from Paris. My guess is he's from Montreal. He wears a trench coat. There's a fifty dollar reward, wanted alive,'� she informs them.
Scratching his swollen cheek, the walrus says, 'Sounds like it could be a real red piece.'�
Shirley beams. Carl puzzles over the technicalities of the press' gears.
'How has the town taken to the Gazette?'�
Carl wanders around the foreign equipment.
'Pretty well, for the most part. The biggest problem is that most of Watson County is illiterate. But now that it's coming into fashion to know how to read, people have started subscribing to the Gazette. Last time we did a survey, turned out 80% of our subscribers use the Gazette as kindling, and 15% use it in the outhouse. So we got about a 5% literacy rate.'�
Everything Carl touches leaves a black oiled stain on his hand. He looks at stacks of finished papers, and stares at the letters. He can't translate the symbols to speech, but he knows that because he can't read them, he can appreciate their beauty all the more.
'In the future,'� the walrus declares, 'the Gazette will be the rock of Watson County. Everyone will turn to it; it will be the key to the chains that binds this town to itself; it will let the people live outside a square mile radius!'�
Carl wonders the sun's place in the sky; he thinks about dinner.
'You smell that, Shirley?'� the walrus asks. The press shack smells of grease and pulp.
'Smell what?'� she asks.
The walrus beams between his whiskers. 'It's the air of Italy! The smell of progress, of a Renaissance, right here in this very room!'�
'You don't say!'� she exclaims.
'And if you let Texas Press buy the Gazette, you'll be smelling Venice all day long!'� the walrus exclaims. 'How much are you asking for the paper?'�
'What are you offering?'� she asks.
'Fifty-five dollars,'� the walrus holds out his hand.
'I'm sure the editor of the Gazette would approve of this offer. I'll just take the money for now,'� she grabs the wad of green paper with thoughts of a house with a view of the water.
'Pleasure doing business with you, Shirley. I'll send some men over to take over the press in a few days. Just so everything's straight, don't expect to be on the new payroll.'�
Carl runs his fingers on the letter molds, dousing them in ink. 'Maybe I can get Samuel Worthington to change reading lessons for shooting lessons,'� he finds himself thinking.
'C'mon, son. Our work here is done, and I'm thirsty. Let's go back to that saloon,'� the walrus suggests.
'Sure.'� He holds the door open for the blubberous figure, transferring the inked letters on his fingers onto the door. Until three years later when the press shack becomes the Watson County Times, the door will have a small stamp of the word voleu.
On their way back into town, they see Samuel Worthington, the town literate, leaning dazedly against a hitching post. 'Afternoon, Samuel. How's that quill of yours workin out?'� Carl says, rubbing his badge. He has never understood what Samuel Worthington expects to benefit from writing books in Watson County. As for Carl and his pals, they figure it's worth nothing but attitude from the locals.
'Oh right, the quill's fine, thank you. Actually, I'm in a bit of a quandary. You see, I've been trying to recall the proper simple present tense of the verb 'to lie'� as in the act of physically lowering, not a psychological falsity. I simply can't recall if it's lying/ laying/lies/ or lays. Terribly frustrating, as you can imagine.'�
'Right, Samuel. You'd best stay out of the sun. And you'd better not be writin bout me in one of them stories of yours,'� Carl adds with a smile.

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