The Mask of Sammy: A Tale of the Arts Department

1937

New York City

Sammy flung a precise complement of steaming chestnuts into a paper bag - an impressive feat given the enormity of his signature scoop and his signature over-the-shoulder tossing arc. Whistling his slightly manic but jaunty signature tune, Sammy proudly conferred his toasty treasure to the Dapper Dan and his Dazzling Dame as they swayed in rhythm with him and the skyscrapers looming above. The city had become heavily anthropomorphized ever since the banks had recovered and folks had quit fleeing for California’s golden boulevards or to die in the dusts of Oklahoma.

As Sammy looked up, he spied a suspicious masked nemesis in a wheelchair clamping a hose to the street cart and draining his treasured chestnuts into a tank affixed to the back of the chair. An incensed Sammy pulled another impossibly large implement from the front of the cart, and as he brought the sledgehammer down, stars and songbirds sprouted from the evildoer’s noggin. Sammy ripped the mask from the now concussed lout, and a familiar countenance emerged – the unmistakable monocle and cigarette holder jutting from a squared jaw.

“Nuts to you,” the rodent declared, propelling the chair and its inhabitant into the Broadway traffic. “Here’s your New Deal!”

**

“Franklin Roosevelt?” Saanvi murmured incredulously as the YouTube video segued into a Dodge Ram ad. “President Roosevelt?”

“Bob Lanzei was never really great at picking the right side of history,” Assistant Professor Cooper admitted. “Lanzei somehow concluded the president was simultaneously a commie, a fascist, and a capitalist schemer who’d staged the Great Depression and the New Deal as the greatest land grab of all time. Sammy was an everyman’s squirrel for the era, and thus hated pretty much everybody. Steamboat Willie it wasn’t. Which brings us to why, no, I was not watching porn when you walked in. You ever hear of the Mickey Mouse gas mask?”

Chairman Deshpande raised a single brow. “Excuse me?”

“Introduced January 7, 1942, a month after Pearl Harbor. Fully functional, with the addition of ginormous mouse ears. The idea was to take the heebie-jeebies out of an enemy gas attack for the little Mouseketeers.”

“That is positively horrifying.”

“Comedy and tragedy – two sides, same coin. Hell, now that Steamboat Willie’s in the public domain, they’re coming out with a horror version.”

“And the Disney people are allowing this?”

“Nothing they can do. Ever seen Winnie The Pooh: Blood and Honey?“

“I shall add it to my queue,” Saanvi vowed. “Why is American childhood entertainment so steeped in violence?”

“We traumatize and indoctrinate kids into our aggressive, xenophobic, toxic alpha culture. That’s the point of the new montage for the Children’s Empowerment Conference. If I can nail down the last few pieces.”

“Including the Mickey Mouse mask?”

“Don’t screw with the House of Mouse, or at least its legal team,” Ethan advised. “I’m waiting back on a call back from Chicago on possibly the last existing Sammy Squirrel Air Raid Mask. Released a week ahead of the Mickey mask. Disney’s mask was equipped with a filter effective against harmful gases and round ‘friendly’ sealed glass eyes, and manufactured from rubber. Lanzei used neoprene, a durable rubber substitute that’s resistant to chemicals – if you spend the bucks for high-grade neoprene. Imagine the blowback if you wound up with a playground of twitching dead tots in fake rubber squirrel masks. Within a month, amid possibly Disney-generated buzz, Lanzei pulled all masks from the stores.”

“At least I know which spectre will be haunting my dreams tonight,” Saanvi said cheerfully.

“Forewarned, forearmed. Hold on,” Ethan murmured excitedly as he swept his chiming iPhone from his blotter. “Whatcha got? Really? Brook Village? Less than two hours away? Who’s the seller? You haven’t talked to them? But they’re willing to sell, or at least loan it to the University? Then how do you know they even have one?” Ethan’s boyish expression vanished. “That could be a challenge. Well, uh, thanks?”

Chairman Deshpande studied her friend and underling for fully a minute. “You have located your squirrel mask?”

“Hah?” Ethan blinked. “Kinda. Few legal issues, though.”

“Ownership? Provenance?”

“Serial killer’s using it for the time being.”

**

“So, you’re an artist?”

“Well, a sculptor, a metalsmith,” Ethan expanded as Police Chief Rainsford continued to twirl a gold-plated pen between index and road rage finger. “I, uh, was looking for a mask kinda, you know, like your guy’s been wearing to his. . .murders. I may have some insights that could help your investigation. You know it’s a gas mask, right?”

“With squirrel ears. Some kinda hipster drug thing?”

“You’re too young to remember Sammy Squirrel, right?”

“Guy that wanted the Japanese put in camps, thought Truman was a Russian sleeper? The cartoon guy, not the squirrel. Look, Professor Cooper, I appreciate your generous offer, but we already hired a pothead slacker, his buddies, and their Great Dane.”

“Chief, the last Sammy Squirrel mask sold at auction for $475,000. Seem goofy – pardon the pun – that a serial killer would wear a nearly half-million-dollar mask on his rounds?”

Brook Village’s top cop sighed laboriously. “Okay, you tell me.”

“My guess, he’s trying to send a message. You know about the mask because you caught the killer on video. At the richy-riches’ house where he shot the HVAC guy? At the condo site where the building commissioner got whacked? In the mall parking lot where that tax consultant was found, or in the lot where the old golfer got his last shot? At the comic book shop? Really kinda tough to get caught in full frame, in the right light, every single time you kill somebody. He wants to be seen, but not identified. So, yeah, message.”

Rainsford quit twirling. “So what’s the message?”

“I got no idea.”

“Rooby Roo,” Rainsford smiled, waggling his fingers goodbye.

**

“Grady was an idiot,” Henry Kim told Ethan. Kim as a slim, chic sore thumb among the multi-hued Lanterns and multiversal Marvels and the Mignolas and Kirbys and and the anime and its kinky cousins. “I took us online, got artists in for Thursday night signings, brought in vintage shit to hook the rich closet geeks and kitsch collectors. Now, Lanzei – that’s some esoteric, off-the-trail shit. You some kinda neo-supremacist type? Sammy Squirrel’s like the mascot for the white pride jags cause all the antisemitic shit. Or are you just an ironic hipster?”

“The University’s got a kids’ rights conference next month, and I’m putting together an installation focusing on childhood trauma in American pop culture.”

“Wow, awesome,” Kim stated. “So, you got a line on a mask? I’ll pay some righteous coin for it – got plenty of hipsters and the other types that would kill for one.”

“Yikes.”

“Grady wouldn’t care. He was an asshole.”

“Enough to make any enemies? Maybe one of those antisemitic squirrel types? Maybe he was one of those antisemitic squirrel types?”

“The incel, racist fanboy? Was a huge conspiracy theorist, but not that much of a stereotype.”

**

“Smart home integration, zoned heating, geothermal, backup generators, gyms and theaters and pools and even home distillery equipment,” said Gary Fratelli, the Bubba Gump of Chicagoland HVAC. “These millennials find something cool and stupid to jam into their McMansion, well, just say we’re printing money. Wayne was a genius at all this high-tech sci-fi shit.”

“Was he into comics?” Ethan asked. Fratelli shifted his bulk with a frown.

“‘Cause Sammy Squirrel killed that comic book store guy, or because the Lanzeis live over in Stansbrook?”

“The Lanzeis? The Sammy Squirrel Lanzeis?”

“Ray and Sam, the sons. We do their cellar work and stuff. I don’t think Wayne was crazy about them at first – he said he caught a ‘weird vibe’ at the house. But he always volunteered to do calls there. Fact, Sam and Ray were on his call sheet right after the job where he got shot…”

“Wait up. Sam? Bob Lanzei named his kid after a violent, racist cartoon squirrel?”

Fratelli shrugged. “Mom named me after her first husband. Boy, Pop was pissed.”

**

“Jesus,” Samuel Lanzei grunted, lifting the bottle. “You broke out the Chateau Lafite Rothschild for this guy?”

Raymond Lanzei snatched the vintage from his brother. “Oops. Well, it’s only the ‘83, not the ’82.” The younger brother turned to their guest. “We got the ’82 at auction for $39,000.”

“Yeah,” Sammy murmured. “This swill only ran us $3,700, so fucking drink up and we’ll bring out the Wheat thins and make a party of it. Jesus.

“So your interest is in the mask itself, not the psycho further pissing on the family’s reputation?” Ray asked Ethan.

“A little of both. How many Air Raid Masks are currently in existence, any idea?”

“Mm. A group of white supremacists adopted Sammy as their brand, and their leaders started wearing them to anti-gay protests, similar nonsense. Their slogan was, ‘Give us our nuts back!’ -- overcompensating morons. A counteroffensive of transsexuals finally commandeered the Neanderthals’ masks and held a bonfire on the Indianapolis Statehouse steps. That took a dozen or more out. Then, we put a bounty on the things and got rid of another couple dozen. The last few, if any, are probably in wealthy collectors’ hands.”

“Except for the one at the top of the six o’clock news,” Ethan noted. Sam poured himself another few hundred’s worth. “You think this is some kind of statement? Against your family, your dad?”

“Dad’was a shitbag,” Sammy slurred. “Took him 10 years to give up on his big dream of that fucking demented squirrel becoming the next Mickey Mouse. Even after he started building shopping centers and car dealerships, Dad couldn’t let it go. Raymond and I tried to make our own way, but with The Squirrel’s legacy following us around, we’re still living on Dad’s trust in the family compound. I can still feel the old shitbag’s icy fingers around my neck.”

“Sam!” Raymond snapped. “Another glass, Professor?”

“Kinda feel like I should,” Ethan said. 

**

The lights were still blazing in the one open shop on Brook Village’s four-block boulevard, and within 20 minutes of Grady’s wake, Assistant Professor Cooper learned why The Marvels sucked and Anthony Mackie Captain America was a travesty on a par with the cancellation of the McRib, and discovered Grady’s geek-gorgeous widow could kick grabby fanboy ass.

“You the dude with the squirrel mask?”

The guy was long and lean in a Hellboy tee and unfortunate man-bun, but Ethan -- bloated and wired from Takis and Rockstar -- was happy to end the neo-Comicon.

“Not yet.” The sculptor followed the giant to a Batcove just before the restrooms.

“Little fuckers,” Man-Bun muttered. “Harvey. Like Harvey Comics. I got like a 30-year run of Casper. I also got some vintage Disney, Warner Bros., Walter Lantz, Terrytoons — all the great old-school animated shorts. Even Sammy Squirrel. You know, Ralph Bakshi did a great subversive, meta take on Sammy in the late ‘80s, to pair-up with his Mighty Mouse retcon. I got the pilot segments, but it never happened ‘cause Bob Lanzei’s kids didn’t want their racist douchebag cartoon squirrel to be a joke.

“I got 10 of the 20 old Sammy tie-in books, and Grady told me he was ‘onto something huge’ that could boost the per-issue value by a few thousand. Then he got caught hacking into the electric company system I guess to wipe out his bill, and he told me the trail hadn’t gone cold. Like some kinda inside joke. Like most of his humor. Shit, like most of ours.”

**

“Five victims,” Ethan whispered. “The HVAC dude, the tax specialist, the building inspector, the comic book guy, and the golfer. Seemed to be no connection between any of them, but I can think of at least one. Or more accurately, two separate patterns. With a third overriding pattern.”

“There an abridged audiobook version of this?” Henry Kim asked.

Access had been easy, once Ethan’d convinced The Brothers Lanzei, Gary Fratelli, a couple of other likely red herrings, and, with a convincing web of lies Chief Rainsford to convene a gathering of the suspects at the late cartoonist’s manse, and dangled low-grade fame and fortune to persuade decoy herring Henry to help raid the family cellar. Ethan and Henry had then claimed loose bladders and scurried underground.

“Wayne, Grady, and the inspector were high-risk targets, requiring planning and specialized access,” Ethan continued. “Then you had Kristin, the tax preparer, shot in an open mall parking lot. And the old golfer, stumbling back to his Lincoln after a long afternoon at the 10th hole. Two apparently opportunistic kills. Let’s take them out of the equation for a moment.”

Henry peered about the walls of red, white, and rose’. “What do you think about a wine bar? Bring in the suburban retro whales with some merlot?”

“Boring you?”

“Sorry, let’s do your thing.”

Ethan trained the maglite over the cellar walls, into the corner seams. “Wayne was a specialist in environmental controls and high-tech systems. The local building inspector had to sign off on major residential modifications.”

“And Grady had the uncanny ability to sort Hulks by color.”

“Getting there,” Assistant Professor Cooper growled. “Both these guys were out here. Wayne added a bank of backup generators with the inspector’s approval. I convinced Chief Rainsford to dig up the Lanzei’s utility bills, like Grady tried to do. The family’s had obscene electrical charges for 40 years. I checked around, and Raymond only started collecting wines about 30 years ago. So why the insane charges and high-tech systems way over the top for a home wine cellar? Plus, when Wayne added Lanzei’s new backup system, he said there was a weird vibe down here.”

“No shit.”

“Wayne knew instinctively what a wine cellar should sound and feel like. When he detected an odd hum or vibration that didn’t belong here, he told the Lanzeis about it, and they paid him off huge, just like they did the building inspector when he questioned how the cellar’s layout didn’t jibe with the home’s blueprints.

“And then, enter Grady. One of your customers said he’d been onto something big but told him the trail hadn’t run cold. An inside joke, Harvey said. Bob Lanzei was obsessed with Disney. If he couldn’t live like Walt, he decided he could at least die like him.”

“I thought that was lung cancer.”

“Conspiracy buffs insist Walt Disney was cryogenically preserved after his death in ’66, despite documented proof of Disney’s cremation. Yeah, here we go. You see that line of light along the corner, and the way the wall seems to be almost inset into the ceiling? Like on a track, maybe? Gimme a hand.” Ethan sighed. “Or don’t, I’m guessing.”

**

It looked and hummed like something designed long ago to turn Jeff Goldblum into a less annoying species.

“Lanzei died in ’84 of a brain aneurysm, but I guess that wasn’t a satisfactory ending. I think Grady started putting things together after hacking into the Lanzeis’ electric bills. May have been what set this whole thing in motion: If TMZ or Extra or CNN got hold of this, Bob’s family would never have gotten another moment of peace or privacy.” Ethan located an inside handle on the front of the metal cylinder, next to a temperature gauge that read “-130F.” “Drumroll, please…”

“Yeah, I don’t do that,” Henry stated. “What’s the plan here? I mean, if you’re telling me what I think, and you’re about to do what it looks like you’re doing, that’s kinda murder, dude. Well, some kind of crime.”

“Yes, back away from the fridge.” Ethan’s heart did a double paradiddle at the gun in Sammy the Squirrel’s hand and the cheap but marginally effective neoprene gas mask on the serial killer’s face.

“Dude,” Henry responded. “You got the chief of police upstairs. This is your move?”

“Exactly his move,” Ethan managed. “Nothing like a son’s love for his dad. Right, Raymond?”

“It was his dying wish, and he deserves better than a viral character assassination,” Bob Lanzei’s son barked. “We’re going to Old Yeller you two, and then, I’m going to give the world something else to meme about.”

“What’s an Old Yell—?”

“Henry.” Ethan looked the homicidal squirrel in the eyes. “You realized you couldn’t keep buying off the locals, so you decided to clean up every loose end leading to your Popsicle. Why you did it all on video — when you got busted for the killings, the Sammy mask would become evidence, likely locked away for years. Why not just destroy it?”

“Sam’s in last stage liver/kidney failure, and as his last blast at Dad, he wants to sell off not just my wine, but also the last mask we’d kept. Well, the next to the last. I thought if I could tie up the mask in court for God knows how many continuances and appeals, I could outlive Sam, and Dad, too, if my brother got any wild ideas about going for the second mask.”

Ethan stated to explain the flaws in Raymond’s scheme, then considered the heir’s words and glanced to the cryogenic chamber.

“C’mon,” Raymond ordered. “This fucking thing is suffocating m—“ His grievance ended as a  figure emerged from the darkness, like Thor on Social Security. The sledgehammer came down on Raymond Lanzei’s skull, and Henry shrieked appropriately as Ethan scooped up the fallen pistol and straight-armed it toward the new intruder.

“Put that goddamn thing down,” Sammy grumbled. “You’ll give me a fucking heart attack, and then you’ll never get what you want. Not that I know anything, because Mom and Raymond were responsible for this whole crazy Good Humor shit. Right? Dad was a paranoid old fuck – his mask is yours if you testify I saved your life and help me crack this thing. C’mon, Deputy Dawg’ll be down here any second. Shit, technology. Wish Ray hadn’t killed that kid.”