Mudbert and Bugbert Part Two: All the Socks in New York City
The police were right. They would be back.
Octavio Cortez sat behind a polished wood desk, his tall, broad frame outlined by the floor-to-ceiling window behind. His sapphire-blue shirt contrasted nicely with a silver silk tie, which in turn complemented the narrow band of gray hair just visible above his ears.
Cortez was grinning broadly as his guests, far less neatly presented, explained their situation.
“The easiest solution, of course, would be to replace it,” Cortez replied, holding out one hand as if to gesture toward this solution; “But I imagine you wouldn't have come to me if that were acceptable to you.”
“Naw, we can replace her, of coarse,” Bugbert said, scratching a spot under the band of his dusty ball cap. “But the Lion Tamer has sentimental value. I'm shore you can see that.”
“Of course,” Cortez nodded, as he steepled his fingers together against his chin. The truck had sentimental value to him as well, he had to admit. It—or she, rather—had been a constant and crucial player on so many adventures in Africa, in Bolivia…
“So how can I help?”
“Well, when we realized she’d bin towed,” the other visitor started in, “we knew we’d need a heavy lift chopper. You're the only person we know in these parts who's got one.”
“I see,” said Cortez, now resting the tips of his fingers on the edge of the desk. He tipped his head back to gaze at the ceiling three stories above them.
Mudbert tried to resist the temptation to look as well, but failed. No solution to their problem appeared overhead, only an immense mural of clouds and angels that extended from wall to wall.
“Of course I’d lend you the chopper, but how are you going to hook her up?” Cortez asked.
“We got that figured out. The roll cage is bolted straight to the frame, we just need a big enough hook. We drew straws, and Bugbert won. He'll ride down with the hook, clink, and we're gone.”
“All right, and what about the roof?” Cortez asked, his right index finger counting out points on the fingers of the opposite hand. This was two; Mudbert was starting to worry there might be more.
“Roof?”
“The city impound is indoors. Do you have a plan to get through the roof? I can't have one of my helicopters hanging around over the impound while you cut the roof open. It needs to be open before we get there. And we need to know what spot she's in before that, or else you'll have to drive her around inside the building; there is a critical path involved here, gentlemen…”
Cortez was on his ring finger now; only the pinky remained.
“Mudbert, you didn't tell me they was a roof,” Bugbert scolded his brother, who was deep in thought.
“How would I know? Who has an indoor parkin’ lot?” the other retorted. “I'm beginnin’ to think this plan has too many imponderables.”
The three men sat in silence before the towering window, the tops of the highest city buildings glinting joyfully in the sun outside. Beyond them, the Atlantic Ocean twinkled.
As if to mark their frustration, a helicopter blazoned with the words “Cortez Construction” rose silently past the glass at a distance, carrying one of Octavio’s corporate officers to a meeting across town. The three continued to think.
“I'll ask the Father,” Cortez finally said, slamming his fist on the desk.
“That bad, huh?” the others said in unison. They usually saw a prayer as a last resort.
“Father Coogan,” Cortez explained. “I think you know I grew up under the care of the Brothers of the Donation of Constantine. As you can imagine, I am one of their major donors; Father Coogan runs the orphanage now and I think he can get your truck back.”
Mudbert and Bugbert turned and stared at each other.
A few phone calls and it was agreed. Father Coogan dropped a hint to Police Commissioner O'Reilly that the orphanage had a need for a pickup truck. O'Reilly, a Donation boy himself, invited the Father to have a look around the impound and pick out any truck he liked from those designated for the auction.
A couple days later, the Lion Tamer was delivered by flatbed to the small courtyard of the orphanage, where Father Coogan, Mudbert, Bugbert and Octavio Cortez waited; the latter three with barely-contained anxiety. The intervening day had been spent at the theater, at museums, on a visit to the Statue of Liberty, but none of that mattered now.
The flatbed, relieved of its heavy burden, pulled out of the courtyard into the bustle of the city, and Mudbert hopped up into the driver's seat. He pulled some keys from his jeans pocket and started her up.
Father Coogan shook his head in concern when a cloud of black soot shot from the exhaust.
“Oh no, that won't do at all.”
Bugbert looked over at the little priest, his eyebrow raised.
“You'll just get your truck towed again if you drive it through the city like that,” Coogan said. “Don't you boys have a DPF?”
“A diesel par-tick-you-late filter?” Mudbert shouted out of the window over the roar of the engine. “It got knocked off by a boulder a few years ago, and she ran so well without it, we never replaced it.”
The exhaust continued to emit visible soot.
Bugbert's face lit up. “I got an idea,” he said, and started unlacing his boots. Before the others could fathom what was taking place, a double layer of slightly moist socks was covering the end of the exhaust pipe, lashed in place with a twist of wire.
“Well at least we can't see the exhaust now,” Father Coogan said. “But you’d better drive her straight out of town, or all the socks in New York City won’t keep you from getting pulled over.”