She was not quite refined. She was not quite unrefined. She was the kind of person who keeps a parrot. (Mark Twain)
Our blackmail scheme was foolproof! And just in case a threat to spill the beans to our head-hancho’s wife regarding his long-time philandering wasn’t of sufficient magnitude to get him to call off his hounds, we had some well-supported falsehoods in our back pocket that should do the trick. And we wanted very little: just his promise to back off and leave us in our blissful retired state.
And of course there was the not-so-small matter of my destroyed Platanthera azorica. I was sure that with the proper persuasion he would be convinced to see things my way.
But much to our utter surprise and shock, when presented with the entire picture, our former grand and fearless leader adamantly denied any involvement whatsoever in the fiasco on the patio of the NoName Cafe. We knew him well enough to know when he was telling the truth versus his more common pattern of prevaricating. He left, chuckling to himself, the scoundrel.
Back to the drawing boards. If not The Company, then who?? We’d pretty much accounted for the whereabouts of all our known enemies of old.
I sat on the patio mulling over the situation sipping a cup of tea. Neville was preparing the evening meal, and Cuddles sat nearby, quietly chattering to himself. What a talkative creature he is, I thought to myself, and how lucky we were that Matilda had given him to us. I had really become quite found of the rascal. And the patrons of the cafe loved him, frequently tossing him bits and pieces of their dinners as he screamed obscenities and choice phrases at them.
As I got up to pluck a few dead blossoms from the hanging plants, I wondered idly where he had learned such choice language. And such interesting . . .
Holy Mother. It couldn’t be! Matilda! One of the few persons for whom I had a smidgeon of trust. I had counted her as a friend even.
Pride goeth before a fall, the nuns always said. Those thugs hadn’t been after us at all — it was Cuddles who was the one important enough to shoot up a patio on a sleepy Sunday morning. They really had been after him all along, because of all the secrets about Matilda he held in that pea-brain and busy tongue.
And later, when we confronted her, she tearfully confessed to everything, begging our forgiveness and claiming temporary insanity. Ha. We can forgive idiocy, but the little matter of my Platanthera was still on the table. She blanched a bit when I told her how much it was worth, but antied up. And we promised to cover for her regarding any indiscretions, past or future, on Cuddles’ part, provided she never again try to harm him.
Later, I gave Cuddles his special treat, a thimble of Guinness. Maybe even two, I thought. After all, with a tongue loosened by a little stout, who knew what stories he had to tell . . .
