2

I stopped off at a newsstand and bought a candy bar for lunch and a paper to read while I ate it, making sure to get a receipt for my expense report.

I turned to the comic section and found the Baby Herman strip.

The rabbit appeared in one panel out of the four, barely visible behind the smoke and flame of an exploding cigar given him by Baby Herman.

I folded the paper shut. Hardly an earthshaking caper, this one. A fast buck and not much more. But what did I expect? Hobnobbing with a rabbit only gets you to Wonderland in fairy tales.

I met the DeGreasy brothers, Rocco and Dominick, in their offices high atop one of L.A.’s most prestigious skyscrapers.

The two were human, although almost comical in their marked resemblance to one another. Their ridged foreheads formed a wobble of demarcation between bowl-shaped haircuts and frizzy eyebrows. Their noses would have looked perfect behind a chrome horn bolted to the handlebars of a bicycle. Smudgy moustaches curtained their circular porthole mouths. Their biceps looked to be half the size of their forearms. And they had feet large enough to cut fifteen seconds off any duck’s time in the hundred-meter freestyle.

Had the DeGreasy boys been discovered frozen beneath some Arctic tundra, a good case would probably have been made for them being the long-sought missing link between humans and Toons.

But, as funny as they looked, when I checked them out, they had come up professional and efficient, the most astute guys in the comic strip business. I gave my card to Rocco, the eldest, who passed it across his handsome antique desk to his brother Dominick.

Not wanting to spend a minute longer than necessary on this case, I came straight to the point. I told them Roger Rabbit had hired me to find out why they refused to honor their contractual obligation to star him in a strip of his own.

Rocco chuckled, then scowled, the way a father might when he sees his youngster do something irritating but cute. “Let me explain our position with regard to Roger Rabbit,” he said, without the slightest trace of rancor. His precise manner of speech and his six-bit vocabulary gave me quite a surprise. From his looks, I expected Goofy, but got Owen Cantrell, Wall Street lawyer, instead. “My brother Dominick and I signed Roger specifically because we felt he would play well as a foil for Baby Herman. We never made any mention of a solo strip then or since.”

Rocco leaned toward me, displaying in the process an impressive array of his stars’ merchandising tie-ins—a Superman tie bar, Bullwinkle Moose cufflinks, and a Mickey Mouse wristwatch. “Roger frequently concocts absurd stories such as this one. We tolerate his delusions because of his great popularity with his audience. Roger makes a perfect fall guy, and his fans love him for it. However, he does not have the charisma to carry a strip of his own. We never even considered giving him one. Right, Dominick?”

Dominick’s head bounced up and down with the vigor of a spring-necked plastic dog.

Rocco got up, opened a file drawer, and pulled out a sheaf of papers, which he handed to me. “Roger’s contract. Read it through. You’ll find no mention of a solo strip. And it stipulates a very generous salary, I might add.” He closed the drawer and returned to his chair. “We have treated Roger fairly and ethically. He has no reason whatsoever to complain.”

I flipped through the contract. It seemed to be in order. “What about the rumor going around that somebody wants to buy out Roger’s contract and make him a star?”

Rocco and Dominick exchanged quizzical glances and shrugged more or less in unison. “News to us,” said Rocco. “If someone did approach us with an offer for Roger, if it made financial sense, and if Roger wanted to go, we would gladly sell him off. We’re not ones to stand in the way of our employees’ advancement, and there’s certainly no shortage of rabbits to replace him.”

He stood and ushered me to the door. “Mister Valiant, I suggest you consider this case closed, and next time get yourself a more mentally stable client.”

Sounded reasonable to me.