David Thayer

Wellington Leg: A few months ago the New York Times moved the publishing capital of the universe from New York to Seattle. This may be one of those time zone situations in which NYT staff writers are sent on the road. Seattle is famously treacherous territory for visitors. The sun may pop through the perpetual overcast just as a salmon flies across the reporter’s field of vision. With cell phone in hand the cub reporter can reach New York faster than Birkenstocks rot in the mist. “You have to see this place…oh my God I see a volcano!”

Only a New York newspaper can move capitals around. Seattle papers worry more about their carbon footprint than east coast papers. They worry about giant squids off the coast, octopi in Elliot Bay, Seahawk draft choices. A Seattle headline might read: GIANT SQUID ENDANGERED. A New York headline might read: DEPUTY MAYOR INDICTED IN SQUID SCANDAL.

Publishing is headquartered in New York. Literary agents gather there. There is only one metric that matters when searching for the capital of the publishing universe: the relative size of the slush pile. Seattle has no slush pile. Unwanted manuscripts are recycled creating habitats on the continent’s edge. Trees that might have become unwanted manuscripts are spared only to fall on power lines during fall and winter. I think you need electricity to be the publishing capital but that’s just me.

In Little Old New York the slush pile stands tall. Decades of common practice permit the pile to grow on radiators, to sprawl across cramped offices and fill tiny apartments. The slush pile frightens interns who come to the publishing capital to seek fame and fortune. Entire basement spaces molder with the decay of forgotten prose until a building inspector scandal is reported by the Post. Every dozen years or so a slush pile submission is published to enormous fanfare akin to celebrating democracy with tanks in the street. “We do read these,” someone will say.

That’s capital talk. You can send out an army of reporters from the Big Apple to ooh and ahh over the developments in the provinces ( they wear clothing! they brush their teeth!) but you’re not moving the publishing capital until the Slush Pile swallows the Chrysler Building and giant squid frolic in the potholes on Second Avenue. Talk to me then.

Wellington Leg: Three gents stopped by today wanting me to locate their friend. I only have one visitor’s chair and there is a sign that says “No Standing.” The sign is meant to be funny but there’s nothing funny about talking to three gentlemen from Verona while two of them wait outside. That’s not how we roll here at Arthur Murray Investigations.

The Belly of the Beast: Their story is a familiar one. A friend of theirs was swallowed by a whale. The cops don’t care. I know I’m the court of last resort. I jot down a description of the whale: big, good swimmer, a tight fisted with the dough.

As you like it: I take the case. Sure the odds are long. One of the gents wants a field report, another wants receipts. No problem. I’ve chartered a ship. We’re all going to find their missing friend. I plot a course for the Marquesas. Let’s go where the whales are.

We’ve got problems dockside: Captain Boris wants to sail on the flood tide. He’s carrying a cargo of nine inch nails and big screen TVs. Not much room for the gents and I let alone the femme fatale boarding at the last minute. I stow my gear aft of the knucklehead someone left behind. Then she stands in my cabin door and asks,” Looking for a whale, Mister?”

One hundred pounds of Trouble: She ignores the No Standing sign I brought along for luck. The ship wallows in the roadstead. Captain Boris is at the wheel shaking his fist at an Albatross. “We’re becalmed,” he says.

We haven’t left yet. One the gents releases the emergency brake. “There we go,” he says. I plot a course for the Marquesas: with a brave crew and a following wind we’ll find that whale. I’m Arthur Murray, Private Investigator.

Wellington Elementary School: With the secret of Eugenia Phaeton’s financial success about to be revealed, fund managers gathered for Story Time at our local grammar school. Regular readers may recall how 9 year old Eugenia rocked the financial markets with her show and tell project My Hedge Fund. Today she disclosed that after her project received a C from Mrs. Haggerty, Eugenia borrowed 1.4 billion dollars from a consortium of money center banks. The “no-doc loan” ignored the fact that the loan application included a stick figure crayon drawing now believed to be a self-portrait.

Tootsie Roll Defense: On advice from Timmy, a classmate, Eugenia attempted to corner the Tootsie Roll market but her mother cracked down. Instead of buying candy Eugenia began shorting the very money center banks and prime brokers who had loaned her money in the first place. As their stocks cratered Eugenia leveraged her position by sticking out her tongue at other managers and making them cry.

Treasury Secretary Paulson is insisting that the loan to Eugenia be nullified and that her controlling interest in Citigroup be “rolled back.” But My Hedge Fund has liquidated its position: Eugenia has fourteen billion dollars in treasury bills.

Governors on a Blanket: Many of the central bank’s regional governors attended Story Time today, and one, Ben Bernanke, had to be hushed by Mrs. Haggerty. “Chairman Bernanke was urging Eugenia to underpin the US dollar when Mrs. Haggarty reminded him that Story Time is also Quiet Time.”

Executives from Merrill Lynch, Lehman Brothers, and Morgan Stanley will conference call with Eugenia unless Scooby Do is on. “They had better not call after six,” Eugenia’s Mom warned. “Especially from the Euro Zone,” she added.

T. Rex Love-handles reporting.

Wellington Leg: Yet another literary scandal may be brewing, this time right here in Wellington Leg, a towne whose literary credentials were swallowed whole only twenty four hours ago. The note instructing a blue whale to “swallow the earl” may have been penned by Prince Gaspar whose imperial Sharpie is now in the custody of CSI Caruso. That the scandal touches the Royal Family makes matters all the more complicated for the dedicated members of the Literary Fraud division of the Wellington Leg Constabulary.

Prince Gaspar Cannot Swim: Alerted to the crisis the Dowager Princess reminded court reporters that her nephew, fourteenth in line to the throne, “very nearly drown in two inches of water,” late last summer. Prince Gaspar, who is six feet tall, lay face down in a mud puddle of undetermined depth before a running footman came to his aid and rescue. “Would a man who cannot swim seek the company of a great ocean going behemoth?” she asked.

Doubts Linger: Experiments with whales and writing instruments have thus far demonstrated a marked indifference on the part of whales toward putting pen to paper. Despite the crackpot theories put forth by Professor Moriarity there remains little scientific evidence that a blue whale would write a note to a gray whale or a humpback to an Orca.

Boris cited: Hair stylist and former Soviet Ambassador to Wellington Leg, Mr. Boris is facing a fine for his role in the earl’s misadventure at sea. “I never flushed a whale down the toilet,” Boris said while banging his shoe on his desk. Lab technicians have built of a scale model of the toilet at considerable expense to the taxpayers. Attempts to stuff a whale down the toilet have been complicated by the absence of an actual whale. “We’re using bowling balls and a great big plunger,” said CSI Caruso. Results to date include a strike and a spare.

T. Rex Love-Handles reporting.

Gastropod Alley: As if the hot weather were not enough Wellington Leg was shocked to learn that their very own Earl of Watership Down has been swallowed by a whale. The incident occurred Sunday when the earl sailed his Fred Flintstone model raft into the choppy waters of Great Bowring Bay shortly after brunch at the Hotel Faz. Sailors aboard the Adrienne Barbeau observed the earl rowing east southeast when the mammoth beast rose from the depths and swallowed him. They notified the Port which, in turn, notified the ship that the port had been notified.

Ironies Abound: Just last spring several whales beached themselves near Cape Schmier. The earl drove them back to the sea by reading aloud from his masterpiece VOLTAIRE’S MIASMA. Whales, despite their great size, fear bad prose as much as the next guy. He then saved a Beluga that Boris has flushed down the toilet eleven years earlier unaware that the fingerling was now bigger than a Volvo station wagon.

Raft recovered: Local potter Anthony “Tony Prawns” Provenzano had just finished throwing a business rival over his roof when Fred Flintstone sailed through the air striking Mr. Prawns on the chin. By the time the Flying Squad arrived, the damage had been done: twenty three bullet holes had punctured the raft destroying the Pebbles and Bam-Bam outriggers. “Who shoots a rubber raft?” asked DCI Borchardt. “Who flushes a whale down a toilet?” Mr. Prawns rejoined.

How whales Communicate: a waterlogged note reading “swallow the earl” washed ashore near the Betty and Veronica extension of Wellington University. Professor Moriarity examined the note using a cathode ray and a bit of spandex: “I can tell you that the note was written by a blue whale using a Sharpie,” he said. “Now we know how whales communicate.”

Hizzoner considered lowering all flags to half mast but no one could shimmy up the flagpole. Anyone wishing to offer assistance in the matter may contact City Hall or by writing a note using a Sharpie.

T. Rex Love-Handles reporting.

Wellington Leg: The launch of the Book Spacemobile has been delayed sources closest to Big Rock Candy Mountain report. Wellington Leg Orbiting Books, a Nevada Corporation, reported a Big Bang after volatile rocket fuel spilled all over a nearby housing development.

The Flying Squad responded to a complaint from Mrs. Phillida Beaufort of Number Two Politburo Prospekt. “She claimed that scientists had trampled her bed of primroses,” DCI Borchardt reported. The team of specialists had been dispatched to assess the fuel situation. When police arrived they found no scientists but did notice a grazing hippopotamus in the front yard.

One of Our Hippos is Missing: Over at Greg’s Haus of Hippos wrangler Marty is counting noses. “Well, we had thirteen hippos yesterday. Now we have fourteen, I mean, twelve.” Thirteen hippos is a Baker’s Dozen. Fourteen is illegal. Twelve means that one of our hippos is missing.

Mrs. Beaufort is against the orbiting book mobile. Last year a decaying spy satellite fell to earth mere inches from her late model Volkswagen Jetta. “I expect more from our city government than having books falling from the sky,” she said. “And, they are not addressing the hippo menace.”

Hailing the Hippo: “It’s not easy getting the attention of a grazing hippopotamus,” DCI Borchardt said. Members of the Flying Squad shouted and waved their arms to little affect. “Look it’s yawning!” someone cried. Attempts to trap the hippo with butterfly nets only aroused the creature’s ire. Before lumbering off the hippo crushed an official police bicycle.

Some believe that the Big Fat Guys secretly support the books in space program and my be using the hippo threat to garner public support. The space station would have a lookout tower providing an early warning system should hippos mass in numbers near Towne.

Science Editor Delancy Clancy reporting.

Wellington Leg: Your reporter has returned from the mighty JFK to the Wellington Aerodrome recently refurbished with odd bits of stylistic musings from the Soviet school of opera frozen in stone. It’s really not a cathedral without a gargoyle or two and it’s really not an airport unless the baggage carousel, which, without baggage, is really just a carousel although austere and not very inviting, unless the baggage carousel spins faster and faster until the luggage flies through the air where lucky contestants can grab their belongings with Jeter like grace and style.

The Aerodrome has a functional fog machine operated by unemployed members of the Wellington Leg Light Orchestra. Fog creates an aura of drama and mystery whether of the low lying rising variety or the more traditional enveloping mist of the descending kind. Someone will inevitably remark that they can’t see their hand in front of their face and you wonder, to yourself of course, what their hand is doing in front of their face. Aren’t they in a hurry? Don’t they want to reach the promised land beyond security?

Or are they simply at the Aerodrome listening to the parking regulations: you can’t park, there is no waiting, violators will be ticketed. Hey, it’s all about waiting. Why not ban waiting indoors? In fact, passengers can wait all they want. Those retrieving said passengers ( meet me near the poster of Hillary Shooting Geese. Bring a pickup truck) they are not permitted to wait. So you have those who wait and those who may not wait separated only by the static filled observations of a disembodied voice insisting that there is no waiting allowed.

Air travel. I can’t wait for my next trip.

On the road: Your reporter is on assignment this weekend. Wellington Leg, a shimmering city on the hill, is expecting fair weather through tonight into the wee hours.

Witch Trial Scheduled: the Wicked Witch who turned Geraldo into a frog will go on trial next week at Central Assizes not far from The Tower. Jury selection is complete although the inclusion of a market weight hog and a Googlebot is certain to raise eyebrows. D&L Publisher Ernst Von Lowbrau has editorialized that “she’s a witch, she’s guilty, we don’t need a trial!”

The hog in question may be Mortimer Mayhew himself a victim of the defendant. “I think the defendant turned Mortimer into a Hog even as she transformed Geraldo into a frog.” Only the kiss of Frederika Fress reversed the spell restoring Geraldo to his “current condition.”

Judge Hamilcar Frist will preside. To amuse the mob he’s reinstating court room favorite THE GREEK CHORUS whose members will boo and hiss when the defense counsel speaks, cry, “she’s guilty!” when things get boring and wrangle the large assembly of small amphibians expected to turn out for the trial. “Many of the frogs and toads hereabouts are interested in the trial,” said Professor Moriarity. “After all, they may be taxpayers.”

Prosecutor Gonads plans to read from Kerouac in his opening statement after discarding the idea of HOWL in its entirety. Exhibit A is a motorized broom believed to be a means of transport for the defendant. Members of the Flying Squad will testify that the broom landed at Wellington Aerodrome “on time for a change.”

T. Rex Love-Handles reporting.

Wellington Leg: As our beloved Gastropods stumble on a home stand after flubbing on the road I thought it an opportune moment to mention the crime fiction titles whizzing across the aisles at Eddie’s Book Nook. Eddie was supposed to write this column but a white rhino charged through the display window at the height of rush hour. Retail gets tougher by the moment.

Review in January Magazine: Alex Carr’s PRINCE OF BAGRAM PRISON is now up and running on January’s crime fiction page. Alex Carr is Jenny Siler who is always welcome at Eddie’s Book Nook once we clear away the Rhino debris and attendant vampire bits.

VODKA NEAT is the work of UK based Anna Blundy. Blundy is published in the UK by McMillan, the US by St. Martin’s. As a North American you’re going to be confused probably buying eleven of her books to discover there are really only three: the good news they’re terrific, so you won’t care.

THE WATER’S EDGE by Daniel Judson. Wellington Leg is Judson country although he prefers to set his stories on the eastern fringe of Long Island more Hampton Bays and Moriches Inlet than the summer hot spots further east. His characters drive through East Hampton but don’t linger. This is his finest novel yet and that’s saying something.

The Earl to the Yankee pen? Don’t be surprised by a June call up for the forty third earl. Yankee brass are working on a deal whereby the earl can take afternoon naps even during day games! This was the big sticking point last year along with the midges on the shores of Lake Erie. Stay tuned….

Wellington Leg: The race for sheriff grew heated as the Dowager Princess confounded pundits by throwing her crown into the ring. Not her good crown, but her everyday crown, the one she wears to the ballpark. Promising her constituents free beer and squalor The Princess leapfrogged the pack including arch nemesis Boris the Reformer. Boris’ campaign slogan More Radishes Than We Have Now reminds voters that his fourteen terms in the House did much to improve the soil in these precincts.

Separation of Powers? “If the Regent becomes Sheriff she may order herself to behead members of the House who oppose her free beer and squalor initiative,” warned Rosencranz from Stage Right. “With the combined strength of Regent and Sheriff the Princess will become more powerful than the Commissioner of Major League Baseball.”

The Voters are Idiots: Other than radishes it isn’t clear what Boris the Reformer has to offer. He recently observed that “voters are idiots” upsetting a delicate balance in local politics. His “Borscht for Babies” program came acropper after nine out of ten infants refused to eat Borscht. Boris was caught bribing a toddler with a Porsche Carrera Turbo, way too much car for a two year old. Still his promise of a windswept desolate literary landscape resonates with the Romantics whose voting bloc is essential to form a government.

Third Party Candidate Ethelred overslept on the campaign trail then flew his Learjet to Nova Scotia where he greeted Fisherman John who is his single supporter in the race. Ethelred and John shared a big dish of beef chow mein before shaking hands in the fog. “Bad photo op,” Boris observed. Still every picture tells a story.

With the Fighting Gastropods in Cleveland the Princess will hold a rally on the Great Lawn in straightaway center field. Peasants and serfs will be beaten if they forget to attend. A word to the wise.

T. Rex Love-Handles reporting.