Interview with
Joe Wehrle Jr.
Part 1
Christmas Spirit in a Speakeasy
Cartoonist Spotlights
Bob Vojtko
Zinographies
Hunt Emerson
Brad W. Foster
Doug Holverson
Richard Krauss
Rick McCollum
DC McNamara
Dave Miller
John Porcellino
Poopsheet Foundation
King-Cat
Michael Roden
Dave Sim's Cerebus
Bob Vojtko
Joe Wehrle Jr.
Christmas Spirit in a Speakeasy By Joe Wehrle Jr.
Spud's Speak was a dark, smoky, musty-smelling dive located a couple of blocks from the waterfront, and you didn't get in unless Spud Siamese, the proprietor, personally inspected your map through the misshapen peephole cut into the back door. Even then, Spud might pretend non-recognition and slam the peephole shut on you.
This night, however, a few ratty, rag-tag wreaths and discolored ornaments were strung across the bar in deference to the season, and a free lunch was set out.
Under the dangling flotsam two tired-looking individuals nursed their glasses of "basement beer" and mused about the human condition in general. Snaggy White, a lanky, muscular character with perpetually sly-looking eyes and a striped pullover was expounding on the virtues of dance-hall girls, while his companion, a staunch family man, insisted that the only true-blue life's companion was the girl who had received a careful upbringing in a sheltered atmosphere.
"Aw, yer full a prunes, Sy," Snaggy retorted in the tone he usually effected when he was on shaky ground.
Over in the corner, old Morton Manx attacked the keyboard two fingers at a time (they weren't always the same two fingers), while a group of five leaned against the piano and attempted Christmas carols.
"We three kings of orient are!" they sang, then faltered, apparently all out of words.
"Stranded in a Singapore bar!" a new arrival chimed in from the doorway.
"Aw, that ain't the words, Catnipl" one of the vocalists complained. "Ain't you got any respect for the season?"
"Boys, I'm so full of respect 'n good will that the next round's on me!" Cauliflower Catnip declared, as Spud bolted the door behind him. "Man, what a dump this place is!" the big feline exclaimed, glancing around." I love it!" He grinned.
"Hey Boss! Over here!" Snaggy yelled. Cauliflower ambled over to the bar and joined his assistants. They swapped stories for a while, eventually lapsing into a series of reminiscences about Christmases of their youth.
No one paid much attention when, sometime later, a tapping on the door indicated that another holiday wayfarer wanted in. Spud took a quick look and unbolted the door as usual. What happened then was unusual.
A small, but firmly constructed and bewhiskered individual was shoved headfirst into the room, quickly followed by three shifty-eyed, unsavory characters bearing guns. These three planted themselves firmly in front of the doorway, glancing around nervously for a few seconds. One of them kicked the door shut.
The little guy they pushed in so unceremoniously had come to a stop and now, shaking his head ruefully, he turned to Spud Siamese. "Sorry, Spud. I was jist comin' up to the door when these guys jumped outta the alley at me. They pushed me up against the door and started knockin' on it!"
"'S all right, Fuzzy," Spud replied uncertainly. He faced the gunmen. "What yer all want, anyway?"
The foremost hood brushed the bristly black hair out of his eyes and grinned. "Wal, chump, let's start with the till," he said smugly, nodding to himself. "We wanta see how much you got in there. And it better be enough," he added, on a sinister note, waving Spud toward the bar with his gun.
"Don't nobody make no sudden moves," one of the other crooks warned, throwing a look at the seated customers and at the ones around the piano.
Cauliflower turned slowly and leaned back against the bar. "Out of town boys, I guess," he muttered speculatively.
"Huh? Who asked ya?" the first gunman growled.
"Just observing, just observin'," the big feline replied carelessly.
"Wal, quit 'observin'—we don't like nosy guys, see?"
"Hey, Claw!" the third one exclaimed. "I seen this guy before—I seen his pitcher someplace!"
"Yeh!" the second hood agreed. "He's a flatfoot—some kinda detective;"
Claw stuck his chin out. "That right? You a detective?"
Cauliflower looked him straight in the eye. "Yeh. Manner o' speakin', I am."
"Wal, I don't like detectives, see? Ya know what we're gonna do? We're gonna empty out the till here, then we're gonna empty out everybody's wallet, then we might even set fire ta this dump. What cha got ta say about that, Mr. Detective?"
Cauliflower grinned mildly at the gunman, spreading his arms wide. "All I got ta say is it's just too bad you boys don't like detectives."
All three gunmen were watching the big feline, their attention drawn for precious seconds from the motionless customers. Snaggy, his back to the crooks, made a surreptitious gesture to the crowd, reminiscent of the kind a conductor might make toward his orchestra.
Claw pushed his sneering face even closer to Cauliflower. "Too bad we don't like detectives, huh? How d' ya figger that, wise guy?"
"Because..." Cauliflower began, gesturing, and the thugs turned to follow his gesture. "Because..."
"We're all detectives!" the crowd roared, and the proof was in the twenty-seven guns quietly trained on the hapless robbers.
The detectives at the bar slid quickly out of the way.
"Ya can make yer move if ya want," Cauliflower said, "But...think about the odds." Three guns hit the floor at about the same time.
The detective leaned an elbow on the bar from the back side, facing the arsenal. "Anybody recognize these mutts? No? Keep an eye on them, Snaggy. I wanta see what they're carryin'." He reached out and pulled a couple of their wallets out with his big sausagelike fingers. "No identification—but look at the salad! All small denominations, too. You boys rob the Sunday Mission or somethin'?"
"It's a Christmas present from our Grannies," one of the tough guys replied belligerently.
The other detectives had the gunmen surrounded now.
"We'll never find out where this money comes from," somebody said.
"Yeh," another one added, "these mugs are drifters—they hit a town for small change, then move on."
"Wal," Cauliflower said thoughtfully, "no sense in disruptin' everybody's Christmas Eve. Snaggy 'n Sy'll help me usher these prime specimens down ta the station. I'll have the bulls write it up as attempted grocery store robbery. Ya do still have some groceries out front, don't ya, Spud?"
"Yeh, I qot a few turnips and a couple bags o' flour," Spud replied, grinning. "If yer get Furris Finnegan to write it up, it'll be okay!"
"Amen!" chorused the other investigators.
The detectives and their prisoners followed a winding path through the dark, snowy streets.
"Gonna be a white Christmas, Boss!" Snaggy commented, grinning.
"Not for these mugs!" the big feline stated firmly. "I'm gonna personally see that they get put away so deep they're gonna need a air hose!"
"Hey gents," Sy Sandbox interrupted."What's that little girl doin' out in this cold?"
She was standing in the narrow passage between two darkened storefronts, peeking around at the approaching men. She drew back hesitantly, then popped out again, focussing big eyes on Cauliflower.
"Say Mister, you got some extra change on ya?"
"Whatsa matter, kid?"
"Well...my ma says if we kin scrape up another thirty-six cents, we kin prob'ly have chicken for Christmas. Do ya have somethin', Mister?" The eyes got even wider.
"Ya got problems, huh, little sister? Hmmmn...hold on a minute!" Cauliflower addressed the three crooks. "Present from yer Grannies, huh? That yer final word on the matter?"
"You got it, chump," Claw sneered.
"Yeh, you ain't gittin' nothin' outta us!"
"We want a mouthpiece!"
"You'll need one!" the detective agreed. "Aw right, empty!"
"Huh?"
"Empty! All of it!" The thugs removed their wallets and reluctantly shook the contents out onto the snowy ground.
"Okay, kid," Cauliflower said, indicating the pile of bills.
"Oh! Oh!" She grabbed it up and stuffed it into the scruffy sweater she wore under the ragged coat. "Gee, thanks, Mister!" She ran up and gave Cauliflower a big hug.
"'S awright, kid. Tell yer ma it's a present from the Detectives' Club. Merry Christmas!"
"Merry Christmas!" She scampered off. The big feline turned back to the thugs.
"A word ta the wise...if there's any mention o' this down at the station, my next case'll involve tracin' yer movements over a long period o' time. Catch?"
"Nice gesture. Cauliflower," Sy told him.
"Somethin' about that kid," the detective said, "I just...uh...umn...(cough)...ahem! They gotta do somethin' about that factory smoke!" He rubbed at his eyes.
"I got cha, Boss!" Snaggy grinned.
A few minutes later the three detectives stood on the steps outside the precinct station.
"Well, gents, I gotta head home to the wife and kids," Sy told his colleagues. "Christmas Eve's a big night for usi"
"Okay, Sy. Happy holidays!"
"See ya, Sy!" Snaggy stretched and flexed his muscles. "I don't know about you, Boss, but I'm go in' where the real Christmas spirit is!"
"Ya mean...?"
"Right! Back ta ol' Spud's Speak!"
Story and artwork © Joe Wehrle Jr.
Cauliflower Catnip
Snaggy White
Sy Sandbox
Furris Finnegan
Cauliflower Catnip, it's characters and the story Christmas Spirit in a Speakeasy are © Joe Wehrle Jr.