The Smile Thief: A Story For All Turtles

By Zack and Mack

The Smile Thief continues where The Smile Ambassadors ends. Little Constance Baker is delighted to bring her two-headed turtle back to the Maytown Fair to race in The Curator's Big Circus Sideshow Turtle Race where Zack and Mack meet some old friends. Unbeknownst to Constance, her family, or Zack and Mack, there are various players wishing to possess the boys for their own nefarious purposes.

The Smile Thief, set in this current time, begins a journey that takes little Constance around the world which leads to the discovery of the deep and traumatic secret humans have hidden from themselves and their collective memory since the ancient mists of time.

Turtles have long had an oral tradition. The Smile Thief is the second story in a trilogy based on the Pirandellian extrospections and exploits of Zack and Mack, a real, live, two-headed turtle currently living in the Northern Hemisphere. As Zack and Mack are just a turtle; (albeit, with two heads), their straightforward writing style is suitable for humans of all ages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zack and Mack
• Release date: Jun 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310536519

Zack and Mack

These current days we bask in the warm sun of an idyllic island. We nosh on bits of fish and worms and occasional green things. When one of our turtle friends happens to visit, we sit around on a log and relive the stories of the old days. Our human, Constance, is now full grown. We have not seen her since the old Maytown days. We hope, for all of us, she finds out how to implement the answer to the question. If not, then these days will join the others and slip into the mists of a long forgotten time.

Book preview

The Smile Thief

a story for all turtles

by

Zack and Mack

Copyright 2015 Zack and Mack

Published by Zack and Mack at Smashwords

ISBN: 9781310536519

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

The Bones Are Rolled

Fair Week

The Smile Thief

The Interim

Zack and Mack Are Discovered

The Rescue

The Escape

Hawk and Other Dangers

The Boys Are Missing

The Noose Tightens

The Loo, The Odzum-mi, and the Strange Fog

About The Authors

Preview The Smile People

Dedication

This story is dedicated to our turtle friend who lost his life in the forbidden wilds of the Hindu Kush.--Zack and Mack

Acknowledgements

This apologue completes the middle portion of the Scheherazadean adventures of Zack and Mack. It was indeed a harrowing time for all involved. It took many hours over many days, weeks, and even months for the boys to relay their personal story. There were times when whole interview sessions were spent just looking out the window with not a word being spoken say for an occasional sigh. At times the memories were just too real. Others turtles were also interviewed for their segment of the adventure. Zack and Mack want to thank Arana, Malea, and Udele for taking the time to speak to the interviewer.

The Baker family wishes to preserve their anonymity at this point in time. Constance is still recovering from the travails that will be forthcoming in the third segment of Zack and Mack’s tale.

A copy of the manuscript was given to Frank Barlow, (pseudonym), for his take regarding his experiences related in The Smile Thief. Mr. Barlow agreed that some of the instances portrayed needed to be toned down for the more sensitive readers in the general audience. It must be said that the American State Department will not comment regarding any of the participants nor any of the activities depicted within these pages. That being said Frank relates that his recollections mirror what has been put down in these pages.

The Curator has been an inspiration to one and all. Not only to the Baker Family but to the many friends and associates that have ever driven a spike and pitched a tent on the lot. Sadly, after the conclusions of the series of adventures, The Curator passed on to the Great Midway in the Sky. He will be missed but his wit and humanity will carry on through Zack and Mack’s stories.

The turtle-to-human translator wishes to thank his spouse for the many months she had to endure with him spending so much time conversing with Zack and Mack. The overseas trips to the various exotic locales did provide some respite from the tedious work of piecing together this formidable tale.

We also want to thank Paul Meredith for his sharp eye and red pen. His old-school insistence on the use of proper punctuation and language helped polish this turtle's tale.

The Smile Thief fits comfortably between the two end pieces of this story. Beginning with The Smile Ambassadors, The Smile Thief carries one further down the twisting road. It is hoped that Zack and Mack’s forthcoming story, The Smile People, will fully complete the mystery that is Zack and Mack..

Jeffrey Reid: Turtle Translator

Las Vegas, Nevada March, 2015

The Bones Are Rolled

He parked the car, got out, and closed the door. The gravel that had accumulated over time on the asphalt parking lot crunched under his patent leather black shoes. He carefully looked about. Being satisfied he was unnoticed in the fog, he straightened his tie. He walked toward the back of the building. Along the rear of this structure was a small fenced area. That was his destination. He entered the fenced area and moved past the garbage dumpster to a small closet-like shed. Before unlatching the clasp and entering, he looked up. On top of this particular building revolving around in the foggy morning was a rather large fiberglass head of a Lhasa Apso wearing a chef’s hat. The man returned to the task at hand.

He undid the clasp and entered the closet. He moved the several brooms and mops and located the other door. He slid away a hatch that covered the digital lock and inputted today’s seven-digit code. One could not be too careful, he thought. The door unlocked as expected. He entered and closed the door behind him. He turned and punched a button on a panel. The small room began to descend. Seven stories later, the elevator stopped. The door opened and he stepped into the underground nerve center.

Welcome aboard, sir, a voice greeted.

Good Morning, the man said returning the greeting.

Oh, good, you’re here, said a woman.

So, what’s the latest? the man asked. "I got the message and flew out from Washington as quick as possible.

We may have ascertained the cause and effect, the woman said in a scientific manner.

Excellent, Dr. Bigby, the man replied. Let’s see what you and the team have come up with.

Certainly, come this way. She led the visitor down a hallway. The two stopped at a door. Dr. Bigby slid her I.D. card though the door’s lock. The moment the door opened enough the visitor pushed his way past to enter the room. Dr. Bigby seemed not to notice his abruptness and followed behind. Scattered around the room were numerous video monitors depicting different angles of Zack and Mack, the two-headed turtle. These videos were compiled during their recent tour of the world as America’s Smile Ambassadors. A single ten foot by ten foot screen displayed the antics of a smiling Zack and Mack. One side of the room was devoted to lab equipment. Bubbling beakers were carefully monitored by junior scientists. They jotted down numbers in a notebook every so often.

So, what are the results thus far, Dr. Bigby, said the man from Washington.

As you know, Zack and Mack have a unique affect on humans. When Zack and Mack smile, people report inner warmth emanating from their heart, outward, said Dr. Bigby.

Yes, yes, we know this already; the question is, why? asked the man from Washington.

I took blood samples from Zack and Mack in Maytown and in Prague, continued Dr. Bigby.

And…, the man asked impatiently.

Look here, look at the third graph, Dr. Bigby pointed to a chart on a computer screen

I see what you mean, the man from Washington said. I want a copy of this and the rest of the information you compiled. This needs to get back to Fort Meade for further analysis.

Certainly, replied Dr. Bigby.

By the way, what’s that odor I smell? asked the man.

It comes through the air ducts, hot dogs, answered Dr. Bigby. We are below a Hot Diggity-Dog after all.

Makes me hungry, the man said.

Constance sat on her bed and opened her newly- filled scrapbook. It contained photographs, newspaper articles and magazine clippings collected from the various points of the compass. There was a picture of her and her mother and father standing along a foot bridge in Prague. Constance giggled as she touched a photo of her friend Reynaldo. Here was a picture of Carmelita and Constance. Besides the numerous pictures of friends and fans she met around the world the past year, there were scores of pictures of Zack and Mack. Zack and Mack are a turtle. Not just any turtle, mind you, but a very special, two-headed turtle.

It was just about a year ago that Zack and Mack escaped the house while Constance’s mother was cleaning the turtle tank. Somehow, Zack and Mack managed to walk out the front door and down the street. Constance lost all hope in finding her beloved turtle. They searched the neighborhood, as well as up and down the creek that ran through the community. Her father enlisted the aid of the local television station and newspaper; after that everything changed. Help and concern poured in from around the world. Even the government got involved.

Finally, Zack and Mack were discovered at the Maytown Fair. Constance never figured out how the boys ended up so far from home. She spotted them at the Big Circus Sideshow, operated by The Curator. He was holding a turtle race and needed one more turtle. According to The Curator, Zack and Mack appeared at his feet just before race time.

Constance remembered the thrill of recognizing her Zack and Mack. She remembered how she ran down the bleachers with popcorn and Missing Turtle Posters flying everywhere. She confronted The Curator, showing him a picture of Zack and Mack and pointing to the turtle that had just won the race. The Curator related to Constance how the little, two-headed turtle just happened to appear minutes prior to the race. He heartily agreed that it was indeed the missing boys. She was now re-united with Zack and Mack.

That would have been that, except the President of the United States decided it would be a good idea to appoint Zack and Mack as Smile Ambassadors. For the past year Constance and her family travelled from country to country showing Zack and Mack. She looked at a picture from England when Zack and Mack visited the Queen. It was she, the Queen, who suggested that the kids of the world race their turtles with Zack and Mack. She turned to the page that showed another picture of her friend in Mexico, Carmelita. Constance paused for a moment at a picture taken in the Philippines of Reynaldo. He had a turtle named Malea. Constance thought about the Philippines, and the first time she meet Reynaldo. She remembered watching Zack and Mack teach Malea how to become a racing turtle.

Another page held pictures and newspaper stories about The Big Turtle Race in Maytown. Kids from around the world brought their turtles to race. The last race featured Malea and Paco, turtles owned by her friends Reynaldo and Carmelita. Malea, Paco and Zack and Mack raced against a slew of other turtles.

Then, there was The Potentate. He, or rather his son, had a turtle in the final race. They cheated. Their turtle had little wheels attached to its belly. While the turtle from Backwardistan initially won the race, it was disqualified due to cheating. Zack and Mack and Malea, and Paco had crossed the finish line together in a planned maneuver and were ruled the actual winners. A newspaper article read, Three First Place Winners! There was a picture of Carmelita, Reynaldo, and Constance standing together on the Awards Stage.

Constance closed her scrapbook and picked up the letter she got in today’s mail. It was from The Curator. He was returning to Maytown for the fair next month and wondered if Zack and Mack could make an appearance. She was grateful for The Curator for finding Zack and Mack, so maybe she would bring them to the Maytown Fair.

Constance heard her father come through the front door. She raced out of her bedroom to greet him.

Hi, daddy, I got a letter today, Constance told her father, giving him a hug.

Let me guess, said Jack, Constance’s father. It’s from Reynaldo?

No, that was yesterday, replied Constance.

From Carmelita, guessed her father.

No, silly, that was the day before, said Constance.

Well, I am stumped, who else would write my daughter, Jack said with a smile.

It’s from The Curator; he asks if Zack and Mack can come to the Maytown Fair to visit Whitey, Sallie Mae, and Myrtle and Ertle, recited Constance.

What about Drop Dead Richard? her father asked.

And Drop Dead Richard, added Constance.

When is the fair? her father asked.

Next month, replied Constance.

Well, if the President doesn’t send Zack and Mack off on a secret mission, I don’t see why they can’t visit The Curator, said Jack.

Oh, goody, said Constance. She stood on her tip toes to give her father a kiss on the cheek and ran off to tell Zack and Mack the good news.

Jack walked into the kitchen and saw his wife, Stella.

Hello, honey, I’m home, Jack greeted his wife.

I hear you got hit up for the fair, Stella said to her husband.

How could I resist our daughter’s charm, replied Jack. She takes after her mother.

In a faraway land, located in a dusty valley that was nestled between high mountain ranges, a man walked around in circles, waving his arms, protesting to those who would listen.

They have dishonored our country, besmirched our good name, the man yelled out. They will not get away with this. Backwardistan will rise to the occasion and seek revenge.

Your Potentate, sir, said an aide meekly.

Yes, Chief of Protocol, snapped The Potentate. What is it?

Perhaps if Son of Potentate had paid, but the smallest bit of attention during the Big Turtle Race none of this would have happened, said the Chief of Protocol.

Ah, Son of Potentate and his infernal video games; all day long he plays video games. He plays video games at the dinner table, during his Potentate lessons. I think he plays video games in his sleep, The Potentate yelled in a booming voice. The Potentate continued walking around in circles in the Great State Room.

It was an excellent plan and we almost had them fooled, didn’t we, Chief of Protocol? The Potentate whispered.

Yes, Potentate, it was a great plan, replied the Chief of Protocol. Backwardistan would have been a great among nations if we had won the Big Turtle Race.

Don’t remind me, The Potentate roared. His anger seethed and grew until it twisted inside him like a black knot. The Potentate stroked his beard several times. He went to the Palace window and looked out upon his country, peering through the dusty haze of Backwardistan.

I have a plan, The Potentate said with a devilish grin while stroking his chin. I have a plan. The Chief of Protocol drew himself alongside his Padishah.

And what would that be, my Potentate?

We are going to steal the world’s smiles. We are going to steal Zack and Mack, The Potentate said with glee. He clapped his hands thrice at the thought of this iniquitous scheme. You are going back to Maytown posthaste to arrange the details. With that pronouncement, The Potentate did an about-face and left the Great State Room to enjoy his diabolical thoughts alone.

Constance Baker was an eight-year-old girl not unlike any other eight-year-old girl. She lived in a comfortable home in a comfortable neighborhood in Maytown, USA. She stood the normal height for her age. Her fawn- blonde hair cascaded past her shoulders and down her back. Her cream-colored face was matched with the peachiness of her cheeks. Her father said his daughter’s eyes matched the forget-me-not flowers her mother raised in the kitchen window box. In pretty much every aspect, Constance Baker was a typical, eight-year-old child, full of wonderment, spunk, and forgetfulness.

Constance, wash your hands for dinner, her mother, Stella, announced through the house. Cassie Dog jumped off the sofa in the family room to search for her young charge. Constance and her dog bumped into each other in the hallway.

You need to wash your paws for dinner, Cassie Dog, Constance said playfully while grabbing the golden retriever around her neck. Constance reluctantly let go of her dog and managed to get her hands washed for dinner. She bounded into the kitchen and sat at her place at the table.

Why don’t you pour the water; you are old enough to do that, Stella suggested to her daughter. Constance scooted out from her chair and went to the refrigerator for the water pitcher and carefully proceeded to fill the dinner glasses with water.

I didn’t spill a drop, Constance announced, proud of her efforts.

Just the way it’s supposed to be, Stella commented. Call your father to the table. Constance bounded out of the kitchen and yelled up the stairs to her father.

Daaaad! Dinnertime! Constance delightfully bellowed like a fishmonger. Jack emerged at the head of the stairs and quickly came down the steps. He reached out and mussed his daughter’s hair.

I wondered if the town crier had somehow entered our home, but it’s you, Jack chided. Come on, your mother is waiting for us. Father and daughter entered the kitchen and took their places at the table. Stella placed a pot of beef stew on the table. Jack took a ladle and served Constance, then his wife and finally himself. The family said a short grace before beginning to feast.

So, The Curator wants you to bring Zack and Mack back to the fair. Are you going to do it? Jack asked his daughter.

I would like to; what do you think? Constance asked.

I think Saturday would be fine; what do you think, mom? Jack asked his wife.

I think Saturday would be perfect; it doesn’t interrupt any school, Stella reasoned.

Dad, will you help me type a letter to The Curator after dinner, Constance asked.

Certainly, her father replied. The family enjoyed the rest of their meal and talked about their respective activities of that day.

The white, sterile walls of the hallway seemed to flicker along with the blinking, fluorescent light above in the ceiling. Advancing down the hall were two men. One in green hospital-type scrubs covered by a white lab coat. The other man, clean-shaven, but otherwise hard-boiled, wore a black suit with a simple red tie. They stopped at an unmarked door. The hard-boiled man reached for the door handle, turned it, and entered. The lab-coated man entered.

Matthews, about time, spat out a balding, mustachioed man at the end of a long, black table. Dr. Owens, thanks for bringing him along. Sit down, he said without ceremony or cheer.

So, what do you think of the report from San Francisco? Matthews intoned.

It collaborates the results we have here, grunted the balding man. He sat back in his office chair holding a pen between his two ham-fisted hands in front of him. Dr. Owens…

Yes, Owens began. He swept his light-brown hair from his forehead. It appears that the results indicate what we initially postulated.

How about in simple terms, Dr. Owens, the balding man interrupted.

Certainly, Mr. Chalmers, the doctor said clearing his throat. It appears this turtle has an effect on humans. Its mere smile causes a feeling of good-will. A euphoric manifestation, if you will. The manifestation is immediate and long lasting. According to our study, test subjects were subjected to just forty-five seconds of Zack and Mack video, resulting in a certain bliss that lasted up to seventy-two hours. If, within that period, a reintroduction of the image resulted in a further seventy-two hour manifestation of bliss, or good will. All measurable levels of anger, stress and anxiety were eliminated during this seventy-two hour period.

Chalmers leaned forward, resting his forearms on the jet-black desk. It sounds like we have a situation. That little, two-headed turtle needs to be properly utilized under professional guidance. He paused for a moment. Matthews, I want you to put together a little team to be available for whatever options we want to pursue.

We have already anticipated that course of action and have had surveillance for some time now, Matthews advanced. How about if we bring Captain Bradley aboard? Matthews wondered aloud.

Good choice, but only on a need-to-know basis, Chalmers agreed. Are we finished here?

How far does this go? Matthews asked for clarification.

This room, Chalmers declared

Rufus and Clyde were a bit, out of place country, in suburban Maytown. They lived in a dilapidated, cab-over camper on blocks located on a spit of land that was overgrown with trees and rusty tin cans. At the edge of the road that delineated the northern end of their property, Rufus and Clyde had erected a makeshift mailbox to gather all the incoming catalogues, flyers, and junk mail they could ever burn in their steel drum furnace. Inside the camper, Rufus sat at one end of the semi-circular dinette that with much effort folded into a bed. Clyde climbed through the door with that day’s mail. Rufus began going through the pile of envelopes, magazines offers, and ads for cut-rate funeral services.

Junk, Junk, Junk, Rufus declared as he tossed items from one pile into another. Hey, this might be interesting.

What is it? Clyde asked, reaching for the green-colored paper that had been folded and stapled. Rufus held it just out of Clyde’s reach.

It welcomes us to attend the Fourth Annual Chili Tasting and Dart Tossing Contest at Mulligan’s Thursday night, Rufus announced.

Clyde punched his fist in the air. We are so there! Say, should we make some chili?

Rufus scratched at his scraggly beard then his cheek. No, Clyde, but I do think we should partake in the dart competition. Clyde nodded his head in agreement. Rufus and Clyde were simple men, simple in their attire, which consisted mainly of dirt stained coveralls and over-sized boots. Some might consider them hillbillies, but Rufus and Clyde might disagree, or agree, given the day of the week.

The two had thrived, connived, and plotted together for many years. They lived within the law as much as possible and were harmless as a pair of old hunting dogs, though, there were times they considered themselves princes among men.

Then Thursday it is, Clyde, Rufus agreed. Perhaps we should boil up some water in the tub and get our bibs and us clean.

Clyde picked at something between his teeth. Don’t want to rush things, today’s jus’ Monday. Rufus scratched at his side.

You gotta point there Clyde.

Far away from Maytown, in the old European city of Trieste, where Italy and the Adriatic meet, sat a peculiar character enjoying a cup of coffee in an open café. He wore a neat black suit, white shirt, and thin black tie. He sported a coal-black bowler hat. In all appearances he seemed quite proper if not a little out of date in today’s hustle and bustle of modernity. He had an exotic look about him. Perhaps he fared from Central Asia. No one really knew. He was not young, maybe in his forties. He was stout, and beneath his black suit, one could see muscles. He had narrow black eyes that followed each passer-by and vehicle. Nothing missed his observation. He picked up the newspaper that lay beside his saucer. Just then he felt a vibration in the inside pocket of his suit.

Moto, he answered discreetly. He listened for several moments before replacing the cell phone back inside his suit pocket. He calmly rose from his seat, dug in his pocket for the correct change, and placed it on the table. He weaved through the seated café-goers to the sidewalk. He walked down the street half a block before crossing the avenue, dodging the taxis and delivery trucks. At the curb of a popular department store a tunnel-black sedan was waiting with an open rear door. Moto climbed inside the vehicle, closed the door as the sedan angled into the mid-day traffic.

Mr. Moto, so good to see you, greeted a voice familiar voice.

Mr. Bruno, I was not aware you were in Trieste, Moto replied.

Until this morning, I was not aware I was going to be here, Bruno retorted. I have a job for you.

Of course, Moto concluded. His eyes wandered down to the old world chameleon sitting in Bruno’s lap. With a black leather glove, Czeslaw Bruno lovingly scratched the chameleon’s head. The eyes of the reptile would move separately from one item of interest to another. Moto sat back in the seat to listen to what sort of task his boss hand in mind.

Czeslaw Bruno lived in another world. His world was outside the normal confines of most people’s daily lives. He had, over the years, built a reputation of being at the top of the heap when it came to crime. He was a bad guy’s bad guy. Many only knew of him through guarded whispers of conflicting fables of his many exploits. What was true and untrue about Czeslaw Bruno, only few knew, like Mr. Moto. Even he did not know everything. Czeslaw Bruno saw true crime as an art form. He did not bother with distasteful crime like narcotics or street muggings. He like to elevate his crime.

For example, for many years Bruno had counterfeited a popular cheese food spread known by its familiar red, blue and gold wrapping and internationally sold. Bruno produced his own version in secret factories in obscure countries. He would then deliver it to grocers in Europe and Asia at a substantial profit. In some locales, Bruno’s counterfeit cheese spread would outsell the original with no one none the wiser. For Czeslaw Bruno, that was true crime. Crime with a sense of panache, if that was possible; for Bruno it was.

Bruno was getting on in his years and thus leaned on Mr. Moto more and more to carry out this or that job. He fancied wearing a Fez, which he wore even whilst traveling by car. He also liked his dark glasses, the darker the better; he even wore them at night. His skin, at least his face and hands, were of an olive complexion. Over the years Mr. Moto had known Bruno, wrinkles had begun forming on the back of Czeslaw’s hands and from behind the dark glasses. Small blotches that one associates with old age had