Chapter Nine.
Raceville
It was a hot, sunny afternoon in Raceville. The Fifty-Second Annual Raceville Airfield Invitational was about to get underway.
On the runway of the Raceville Airfield, ten racing planes sat at the ready. Their pilots were already in their seats, focused and eager to start. A crowd of spectators completely filled the bleachers that had been set up on the left side of the runway. They murmured excitedly, anticipating the start of the race.
There was a small podium next to the bleachers. Up to the podium stepped a skinny, academic-looking lion wearing a blue blazer. He picked up a megaphone, then faced the crowd.
"Ahem. Good afternoon, spectators! I'm Pettigrew, the race official. Welcome to the Fifty-Second Annual Raceville Airfield Invitational!"
The crowd cheered heartily.
"We have an exciting race for you today. Let's get things started, shall we? Good luck to all the contestants!" Pettigrew retrieved his silver starters' pistol from his pocket and aimed it into the air. "Racers! On your marks!"
At the starting line, the ten racers snapped to attention. Their hands moved to the controls of their respective planes.
"Get set!"
The engines of the ten planes started up as one, the propellers whirring to life. The crowd roared its approval.
Pettigrew moved his finger to the trigger of the pistol.
"GOOOOOO!" He shouted the command and fired the pistol at the same time.
No one heard him.
KA-BOOOOOM! The sound of a deafening explosion thundered across the entire airfield. Pettigrew found himself on his rear, looking up at the sky. He lay there for a few seconds, dazed, then managed to sit up. He saw panic, people running in all directions. The tiny starters' pistol was lying on the ground next to him. He picked it up and stared at it in bewilderment.
Two people ran past him. "That plane! It just...blew up!" one of them shouted.
Pettigrew turned to look at the starting line. A tall plume of black smoke was rising into the air, getting thicker with every second. He leapt to his feet. He ran as fast as he could towards the smoke.
As he neared the area, he saw Racer #5's plane – or what was left of it. The blue biplane had been ripped in half from nose to tail. Both pieces of the wreckage lay smoking on the ground. Sitting in the middle of the wreckage was a very dazed (and lucky) Racer #5. The rabbit was singed from head to toe, and still had the steering wheel in his hands, even though it was no longer attached to an aircraft. A crowd had gathered around the scene, including all of the other racers who had jumped out of their planes to help.
"Are you all right?!" Pettigrew cried
The racer coughed, emitting a large puff of smoke. "Mom was right. I should have become a dentist," he mumbled. Then he promptly planted his face into the runway.
A couple of good Samaritans in the crowd ran over to help the poor fellow. They examined him. "He's hurt bad!" one of them said. "But he'll make it."
"Thank goodness!" Pettigrew breathed a sigh of relief. "But what made it blow up like that? Anyone see anything?"
Everyone in the crowd shrugged and murmured that they hadn't.
Pettigrew spied Racer #4, a tall leopard in aviator sunglasses, standing nearby. "You!" he called out. "Your plane was right next to his. Did you see what happened?"
Racer #4 shook his head. "Didn't see nothin', man. I was gettin' set to take off when the whole thing just went up in smoke!"
"Oh dear. This is terrible," Pettigrew said. He looked at all the wreckage on the ground and shook his head. "How could this have happened?"
Just then, a new voice spoke up behind the crowd. None of them recognized it. It was smooth, businesslike, and extremely confident. "Excuse me, gentlemen. But I believe I may have some insight."
The crowd turned around. Standing on the tarmac was a tall, handsome jackal in a three-piece suit. He had dark sunglasses on and was carrying a leather briefcase. He was bent over, examining one of the pieces of wreckage on the ground.
"Who are you?" Pettigrew said.
The jackal stood up, took a few steps toward him, and extended a hand. In it was a business card. Pettigrew took it. The card was printed in a professional-looking font, with an elegance that matched the dress of its owner. It read:
YUL B. ALLWRIGHT
ALLWRIGHT INSURANCE COMPANY, L.L.P.
"Making Things Allwright for 20 Years"
"My name is Allwright. Yul Allwright. Founder and proprietor, Allwright Insurance Company."
"You're...an insurance salesman?"
"Yes. Specifically, the business of insuring airplanes. And I specialize in cases like this."
Pettigrew stared at the debris-laden scene around them. He pushed his glasses farther up his nose. "You've seen this type of thing before?"
"Oh yes. In fact, I have a pretty good idea of what caused this accident. I just need to examine a bit more to be sure. If you'll allow me..." Allwright started walking toward the main body of the wreckage. The crowd, curious what this newcomer had to offer, parted to allow him to pass.
He set his briefcase on the ground, snapped it open, and removed a magnifying glass. With slow, measured sweeps of the lens, he started inspecting the fuselage of Racer #5's plane, which was still emitting trails of smoke into the air. "Mmm-hmm. Interesting...huh…well now…"
Pettigrew and the rest of the racers watched curiously. "Well?" Pettigrew asked. "What do you see?"
"Just what I expected." Allwright pointed his magnifying glass at a section of the front fuselage. There were several long roughly parallel scratches etched deep in the metal. "These scratches aren't from the explosion. As you can see, the pattern is too regular for that."
"What are they?"
"Claw marks," Allwright replied.
A huge collective gasp went up among the racers. They knew what those marks meant, and they were terrified.
Pettigrew had no idea what was going on. "What? What does that mean?"
A serious expression came over Allwright's face. "It means that there's no doubt in my mind about what caused this accident. Gentlemen, what you have here is the work of a pieces monkey."
The racers all started talking at once.
"A pieces monkey? Aw, shucks. There goes the neighborhood!"
"Ya gotta be kiddin' me! Looks like my mechanic's about to be booked for the rest of the month."
Racer #4 shook his head and coolly adjusted his sunglasses. "Man, I ain't playin' around with one of these things," he said. "Looks like it's time for a vacation."
Pettigrew still had no idea what everyone was talking about. "What in the world is a pieces monkey?" he asked.
"A pieces monkey," Allwright said, "is a very rare but extremely dangerous animal." He reached into his suitcase and pulled out a poster-sized canvas. It was a portrait of a small, impish creature with tan fur. The animal had the long tail and intelligent eyes of a monkey. But its pointed ears and sharp claws made it look almost cat-like.
"They're called pieces monkeys because anything around them, tends to end up in pieces. They're natural saboteurs. Very intelligent and very agile. Anything mechanical that they can get their hands on, they'll destroy. Airplanes are their favorite target. A single pieces monkey left unchecked on a flight can bring it down in minutes."
Pettigrew's eyes widened. "Something like that could wreak havoc in Raceville! How did it get here?"
"Best guess, a smuggler. Pieces monkeys are illegal to own, you see, but there's quite a black market for them. Someone must have brought them here to try to sell them, and they got loose."
Racer #4's head swiveled around so fast that his sunglasses went askew. "Hold on, man. Did you say 'they'? As in, more than one?"
"I certainly did." Allwright squinted at the fuselage. "Based on the pattern of these scratches, I'd say we're dealing with at least three individual animals. Of course, there could be more."
Racer #4 inhaled sharply. "That's it, baby. This cat's outta here." He quickly ran back to his plane, climbed in, and slammed the door shut. The propellers started up as he took off in a cloud of dust. The racers watched as his plane disappeared into the clouds.
"This is great, just great," Racer #7 complained. "What are we supposed to do? We can't all just leave."
"Maybe we should," Racer #10 said. "Any one of our planes could be next." Several other racers whispered in agreement.
"Isn't there some way we can get rid of these things?" Pettigrew suggested. "Like, trap them or something?"
"I'm afraid not," Allwright said, shaking his head. "Pieces monkeys are too smart to be controlled by any normal methods. But not to worry, gentlemen. My company helps pilots just like you protect their airplanes. I have exactly what you're looking for." He reached into his suitcase again and pulled out an official-looking document with rows of dense text written on it. At the top of the document, set in a fancy typeface, were the words ALLWRIGHT INSURANCE COMPANY. He held it up proudly, as if it were a magnificent work of art.
"This is all the protection you'll ever need from those pesky creatures. It's our pieces monkey protection plan. With this plan, there are no limits on payouts. It's good for as long as you own your plane. And we have the most competitive rates in the business."
Curiosity was getting the better of the racers. They looked up with interest in their faces. Racer #7 stroked his chin, wearing a thoughtful expression. "All right, pal. Ya got my attention. Tell us more."
Allwright nodded. "It's simple. Once you buy this policy, Allwright Insurance will cover the cost of any pieces monkey-related damages to your plane for as long as you own it. There are no monthly payments to deal with. Just one lump sum payment up front. That keeps our overhead costs low, so we can pass on the savings to you, the customer. A typical policy like this would go for several hundred a year. I can offer you gentlemen the same coverage," he said proudly, "starting at a mere one thousand dollars, flat."
The racers murmured to each other enthusiastically. The insurance man smiled. He knew his sales pitch was working.
"Hold up a sec," Racer #9 drawled. "What if something does happen to our planes? How d'we know you'll have enough dough to pay out?"
Allwright chuckled. "Sir, I've been in this business for over twenty years. There's nothing I haven't seen or planned for. Rest assured, all of our policies are backed by the full financial strength of our company." He calmly picked up his briefcase with both hands, then turned it to face the racers. "And, just in case there are any doubters…" He opened the briefcase just enough for the racers to see that the entire bottom of the case was lined with layers and layers of cash. It was more money than any of them had ever seen. Before any of them could look too long at it, however, Allwright snapped the briefcase shut. He smiled, showing his long canine teeth. "Any other questions?"
No one said anything. It seemed that Allwright had made his point. The racers stood thoughtfully, silently pondering his offer.
Finally, Racer #7 stepped forward. "All right, bub. I'm yer newest customer. My plane's my livelihood. I gotta protect it, ya know? How do I get you the dough?"
Racer #10 quickly raised his hand. "I'll buy too. My airplane's all I got. I can't risk losing it."
"Me too," someone else added.
"Excellent," Allwright said, nodding. "You've all made a wise choice for your future." He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a handful of business cards, which he started distributing to the racers. "My address is on this card. I have an office downtown. In addition, I will be at most of the major air races around Raceville, available for consultation. So you know where to find me."
He picked up his briefcase, backed away a few steps, then bowed deeply to the group. "Gentlemen, it has a been a pleasure. If you decide you need insurance, please do not hesitate to reach out. After all," -he grinned- "there's always time to make things Allwright."