Hugh Hamilton
Ominous clouds were forming. Even the people in aisle seats could tell. A familiar, calm, distorted, monotonous voice announced, again, that the coming turbulence was nothing to worry about. This time, Hugh decided, he wasn't going to get platonic.
"How's the view?" he asked, craning to see beyond his companion.
"Preferable to Something New," said said companion, the merest suggestion of a smirk accompanying the remark.
"I hate you."
Ben returned to the window. "Paper beats rock."
"It's been four hours," Hugh managed through teeth. "We are not starting that argument again."
"Argument?" Ben turned back to the small man in the aisle seat with whom he spent the majority of his time. "That was not an argument. See, arguments tend to have two sides. Or rather, two sides that can be argued. I seem to recall your case resting solely on your assertion that, due to a sudden hand cramp, you had inadvertently constructed a crooked pair of scissors, with the blades pointing in on themselves, so that the final product slightly resembled the universal gesture for rock."
Hugh clenched four parts of his body. "I'm going to be the bigger man and not pursue this any further."
"I think the bigger man would have decided against intermittently feigning a hand cramp for four hours straight after losing paper-scissors-rock."
Hugh shut up. Not willingly, of course; he was merely silent while his mind worked away at a comeback that never arrived. Finally realising too much time had elapsed to make even something with wit in it work, Hugh sunk back into his seat and decided Hell, he was going to be invested in this frothily topical interracial love story, sweeping ocean views be damned. Nine minutes later he was bawling. Not one for sweeping ocean views, Ben opened a book. He paused before the first line to remind himself, once again, of the events of the morning, while lightning licked the plane.
The day had not begun promisingly. Ben and Hugh had spent most of the morning arguing about a wild kitten they had found rooting around their rubbish bins. Ben had already decided to keep it, and had in fact already named it — after himself. Having been an early victim of its claws, Hugh was considerably less keen to encourage future injury by keeping the thing about. Plus the calling-it-Ben thing. But then he saw it curled up and trilling in Ben's lap, its matted brown fur undulating gently, and found that, however he tried, he could no longer satisfactorily imagine its absence from his life. He was tentatively extending an arm for a pat when the doorbell interrupted. Being the one without the cat on his lap, the duty of attending to the visitor was his alone.
"Ah, you must be Ben or Hugh," said a man in a really, really nice suit.
"Correct," replied Hugh. "Come in."
The man removed his hat, then, failing to find a hat rack, returned it to his head.
"Make yourself at home," mumbled Hugh, when they had reached the office proper.
"At home I have chairs," said the man, noticing there were none available. But there was enough of a smile on his face as he said it that Hugh and Ben weren't completely embarrassed. The former pushed some books off a stool and slid it round to the front of the desk. The man brushed it with a sleeve before seating himself. Then he looked at Ben for the first time.
"Oh, cute cat. What do you call the little darling?"
"We haven't—"
"Ben," said Ben.
"Even though it's a girl?" said the man.
"What?" Ben blinked. "How can you tell?"
"Well, you see its penis?"
"No."
"Exactly."
"I still like Ben," said Ben.
"You know what?" began the man. "So do I. I'm a firm believer in non-conventional pet names. None of this Puss Puss or Cat Cat business."
"Or Scratchy," said Hugh, dabbing a new wound.
The man took Ben (the cat) in one of his large hands and laid her to rest over his shoulder. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ben."
A little affronted, Ben (the person) responded curtly: "I take it you have a case for us?"
"Do I?"
"Um..."
"Sorry, the inflection was all wrong. I meant, Do I!" The man returned Ben to Ben and stood up dramatically. "I have the case you wait your whole career for."
"Our last case?" suggested Ben.
"No, I mean the one that defines you, makes your name."
"Oh." Ben paused. "Do you think it's something you'll be able to cram into fifty words or less?"
"Not a chance."
"Rats."
Hugh clipped Ben across the ear. "Please continue."
The man nodded. "My name is Gillian Rodmill. I am the current CEO of Make Mine Muskens Inc., the once-prosperous custard and tempered glass manufacturer. Our former CEO and founder, Kurt Muskens, resigned under mysterious circumstances four months ago. Since then we have recorded our biggest loss for a quarter on record. Frankly, the company has been in complete disarray. It's been so bad, in fact, that we have had to go with the cheapest and least renowned private detectives in town."
"That's us!" cried Hugh, hearing the reference as a compliment.
"Quite. Now to the crux of the matter. I need you two to locate Mr. Muskens and persuade him to come back to work. Whatever method, whatever cost — actually, not whatever cost, but certainly whatever method. The point is, we need him back."
"Why don't you try a different CEO? It can't be that hard to make ink," said Ben, stroking Ben protectively while Hugh kicked him under the desk.
"We have been interviewing for weeks. No one, alas, has had the same curious mix of deranged vision and business acumen required to resurrect the company. If Mr. Muskens does not return, Make Mine Muskens will be no longer."
"It's already about the right length anyway," said Hugh automatically.
"Excuse me?"
"He said, We'll do it," said Ben.
"Oh, splendid."
"Any idea where this Muskens fellow got to?" asked Hugh.
"I believe him to be in Suriname. Before he left the company, he was struck by a strange fever that left him virtually incoherent. The only thing we could make out was something he kept repeating about a secret in Suriname."
"Suriname?"
"Yes, South America. No one's seen him here since, so that's probably the best place to start looking."
"All expenses paid?" asked Ben, hopefully.
"Well, I did take the liberty of purchasing your return tickets, but I'm afraid that's about as far as it goes. I was not kidding when I said we were in dire straits. But we will be able to handsomely reward you beyond your minimum daily fee should you meet with success."
"Good enough," said Ben, pouring the cat off his lap and taking one of the tickets.
"Hang on, this flight leaves in two hours," said Hugh, reading his.
"Then I'd best leave you our file on Mr. Muskens and be on my way. Good day, gentlemen. I can be reached by phone."
Dropping off Ben (the cat) unannounced at Grace's, Ben and Hugh finished packing and left.
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