Cutting 32

Raton Smithee

"The Spaniard. The children know him as Ratoncito Perez. He's inna same line o' work as yours truly, but instead of money, he leaves little gifts. Homemade baubles and trinkets. However, the end products belie the creative craftsmanship of the li'l bastard. He can work miracles with common household garbage. And a miracle is what I need. A magic bullet to be exact. Well... more like a magic arrowhead. Me and Raton, we're mates from way back, but I'm gonna owe him big after this. And just in case you took Spanish in your Secondary and were wondering about the name, the answer is yes. He is a mouse. Tiny hands are adept at making the most intricate and effective things. When he understands the stakes at hand, he'll want to come along. I won't put him in that kind of danger though. I'll have to lie straight to his face, leave him behind, and hope he can forgive me inna next fifty years."

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The small gray mouse leaped from the door jamb to the knob in one fluid motion. He rummaged through an overstuffed rucksack and pulled out a set of lock picks. Ratoncito hummed a jaunty tune while setting the pins to the Cheapside apartment. With the last click he threw his full weight into rotating the knob. The door flew open and the mouse sprang forward, twisting and flipping in mid-air, then landing a perfect dismount.

"Et Voila!" He exclaimed to the sole member of the audience.

"Raton!" Harold greeted, clapping his hands together enthusiastically.

"Ay blanquito! Come say hello!"

"Say hello? That's a funny way of sayin' 'give us a drink'."

"Ah, something lost in translation, no?"

Harold bent down to pick up the little mouse. Ratoncito had gone a bit grayer and developed a paunch since he'd seen him last. Hard to tell from the athletic entrance. He let the mouse clasp his index finger and nuzzle it in a brotherly greeting before setting him on a dinner table.

"I hear you say funny things to me over the phone. Things about you go to find Dracula and kill him. Mentiroso! Why you make your good friend crazy like this? I think maybe you collect drugs now instead of teeth, eh?"

Harold poured a shot of whiskey for himself and a thimble of the stuff for his guest. "Wish I was goin' barmy, mate. I cut a deal with Death for fifty more years if ye can Adam n' Eve it. But, I promised her Vlad to get it. Here's the rub though, if I can bag him, I getta pair of the most exquisite fangs for me collection."

"No me jodas!" Ratoncito pushed the thimble toward Harold for a refill, which Harold obliged. "My friend, you have to let me assist you in this undertaking. The entire world of creatures will sing songs of us for the rest of time! Salud!"

They tipped their drinks back and Harold poured another shot. "Nah me amigo. It's too dangerous. I couldn't live with meself if anything were to happen to you. I just need you to make me a li'l somethin' for the journey. Then you can be on your way, safe and sound."

"But you know you need me. I am small and quick, able to use the sneaky to get anywhere I want. And I need this quest, for I am not the young Ratoncito Perez, with a lifetime full of adventure ahead. Besides, I will not make a single thing if you deny me."

"You're a hard old bastard, Raton. Very well. You're hired."

"Otra vez!" the mouse proclaimed, tilting the empty thimble back in Harold's direction. When the cups had been drained, Ratoncito was slurring a bit. "And now my friend, you asked me to bring some very specific tools. Do you have the materials?"

"Aye. To signify the Cross, we'll scrape some wood from the writin' desk. For Judas' coin, take your pick. There's silver all around the place. Then I got the sacred water from Mary-le-Bow."

"No, no, no tonto. You know this will not work. The ingredients must be special to you. You must have faith in them. You cannot make a holy weapon from a chair and a coin from your pocket. Unless you are paladin, maybe. So you must choose new components. Except for the Holy Water. This is good." He unpacked a miniature crucible, tongs, a cast, and a whetstone from his bag.

"Well, I've a handful of silver doubloons I nicked from a pirate on The Princess. He was one of my first jobs. Lost a tooth to scurvy." Harold trailed off, lost in the memory. "I was only thirteen..."

Ratoncito was busy building a fire. "Si, that will do", he said, feeding and stoking the flames.

"I'll be damned if I can think of a single significant piece of bloody wood, though."

The mouse paused his duties and stumbled toward a large curio cabinet in the corner. Halfway there, he realized that his balance was better on all fours, and scampered up to an ornate display case in the center of the cabinet. He presented it like a showroom model.

"Noooooooo, mate. You're takin' the piss, man! Not me Georgie's!"

Ratoncito searched the case for a latch to get at George Washington's wooden teeth. "I only need one. Two maybe."

Harold threw a passive tantrum, sprawling limply on the floor. "Raton, just lemme fuckin' die!"

"Levantate, pobresito." Perez nibbled chucks of wood out of the hindmost molars and collected the splinters fastidiously. "You make another drink, I make you a weapon. We both feel better. And you tell me this ridiculous plan for kill Mister Dracula."

Ratoncito was right. They drank while the mouse's tiny hands nimbly worked through the age-old processes of melting, casting, quenching, tempering, and sharpening. The reminisced about the jovial times past, and boasted about future glories. And Harold spun his web of lies.

"So remember, first thing in the mornin', we have to make the flight to Italy. Then it's on to Transylvania for our bounty."

The poor rodent was dead drunk and exhausted on his feet. Despite this, the finished arrowhead was a flawless instrument of murder. Harold could see the glint of pride beneath the tiredness in Ratoncito's bloodshot eyes. The tooth-fairy made a small bed out of towels in one of the desk drawers. His companion was already asleep when he placed him inside the makeshift covers, a labored wheeze accompanying his gentle snore. He noticed the broken whiskers on Ratoncito's muzzle. There were fewer of them every year. Harold tenderly rubbed the mouse's furry side.

"I swear to you, if I make it through this, every time this story is told, you'll be there beside me. Every song that's sung, your name will be the chorus. Sleep tight, my brother. And live well."

Harold grabbed a packed suitcase from under his bed. He double checked to make sure that he had remembered the sealed Page of Prophesies and his plane ticket to Greece. Silently, he slipped outside of his apartment and hailed a cab to Heathrow.