the diameter of a baseball, the eyes were astrange lavender shade with black insets for pupils, and were fringed with two-inch-long lashes. I finally decided a mesh screen below the critter’s bow tie hid the performer’s face.
“Sir, can you put the chair down, please?” I asked, wondering how he maintained his hold on the wooden chair with his rounded rabbit paws. “What’s your name?”
In answer, he hefted the chair a foot higher and said, “You can sit on my lap, pretty lady.” A very un-bunnyish snicker issued from the costume’s big, round head.
“Mr. Bunny,” I said sternly, having no other name to use, “you’re scaring the children.”
“Good.”
We were not off to a promising start. I didn’t want to have to subdue him physically—how many kids would be traumatized by seeing the Easter Bunny taken down by a couple of mall security officers?—so I resorted to bribery. “Look, why don’t you take off that costume—I’m sure it’s uncomfortable and hot—and we can talk about this over a beer at Tombino’s. I’m buying.”
He thought for a moment, swaying. “Okay, then.” He dropped the chair with a clatter and wiggled his hands free of the mittlike paws. Attached to the arms of the fuzzy white costume with a length of cloth, they dangled like a toddler’s mittens secured to a parka. I was congratulating myself on my strategy when his hands went to a hidden zipper beneath the bunny’s chin and he yanked it to his waist with a metallic whizzing sound. A scrawny bare chest appeared, matted with graying hair.
“No, wait!” I said as a few of the watching mothers gasped or covered their children’s eyes. But it was too late. He continued unzipping and shrugged out of the costume, almost falling as he kicked off the clumsy bunny feet that must have been three feet long.
“There, that’s better,” the man said, wearing the roundbunny head with its one upright and one drooping ear and nothing else but a pair of plaid boxer shorts. I’d never been so happy to see a pair of underwear in my life. I became aware that many of the onlookers had pulled out their cell phones to take photos, and groaned. “Naked Easter Bunny at Fernglen Galleria” was not the kind of headline that would make Quigley happy. I moved forward to help the actor remove the bunny head, which had gotten stuck, and Harold borrowed a coat from someone and laid it around the man’s shoulders. It covered him to his knobby knees.
“Good thinking,” I told Harold.
He grinned. “What’s up, doc?”
It took an hour to get Hiram Dabney, aka the Easter Bunny, dressed, sobered up, and out of the mall in the company of a police officer who seemed to know him from his overnights in the local drunk tank. I arrived back at the security office, hair disheveled and knee aching, to find Joel grinning like a fool, obviously having heard all about the bunny striptease.
“Not one word,” I warned him.
Before he could reply, two people arrived simultaneously, and I turned to greet them, hoping they weren’t reporters. The first, a man wearing coveralls and carrying a toolkit said, “I’m here to fix the cameras?” The second, a statuesque redhead said, “I need to talk to Denny.”
“Thank heavens,” I said to the camera guy. I pointed to the bank of monitors. “Do your thing.” Joel cleared papers and office-supply clutter out of the way so the repairman had somewhere to spread out his tools.
“Sorry,” I said to the redhead. “Denny?”
She sighed heavily, rounded bosom rising and fallingunder a zip-up knit jacket. “Denny Woskowicz, the security guy.”
I stared at her. Talk about déjà vu all over again. She was taller and a few years younger than Nina, and her hair was a more coppery red, but she was enough like yesterday’s visitor to be her sister. It dawned on me a bit late that Captain Woskowicz’s first name was Dennis. “He’s not here,” I said. “He hasn’t been in since
“Sir, can you put the chair down, please?” I asked, wondering how he maintained his hold on the wooden chair with his rounded rabbit paws. “What’s your name?”
In answer, he hefted the chair a foot higher and said, “You can sit on my lap, pretty lady.” A very un-bunnyish snicker issued from the costume’s big, round head.
“Mr. Bunny,” I said sternly, having no other name to use, “you’re scaring the children.”
“Good.”
We were not off to a promising start. I didn’t want to have to subdue him physically—how many kids would be traumatized by seeing the Easter Bunny taken down by a couple of mall security officers?—so I resorted to bribery. “Look, why don’t you take off that costume—I’m sure it’s uncomfortable and hot—and we can talk about this over a beer at Tombino’s. I’m buying.”
He thought for a moment, swaying. “Okay, then.” He dropped the chair with a clatter and wiggled his hands free of the mittlike paws. Attached to the arms of the fuzzy white costume with a length of cloth, they dangled like a toddler’s mittens secured to a parka. I was congratulating myself on my strategy when his hands went to a hidden zipper beneath the bunny’s chin and he yanked it to his waist with a metallic whizzing sound. A scrawny bare chest appeared, matted with graying hair.
“No, wait!” I said as a few of the watching mothers gasped or covered their children’s eyes. But it was too late. He continued unzipping and shrugged out of the costume, almost falling as he kicked off the clumsy bunny feet that must have been three feet long.
“There, that’s better,” the man said, wearing the roundbunny head with its one upright and one drooping ear and nothing else but a pair of plaid boxer shorts. I’d never been so happy to see a pair of underwear in my life. I became aware that many of the onlookers had pulled out their cell phones to take photos, and groaned. “Naked Easter Bunny at Fernglen Galleria” was not the kind of headline that would make Quigley happy. I moved forward to help the actor remove the bunny head, which had gotten stuck, and Harold borrowed a coat from someone and laid it around the man’s shoulders. It covered him to his knobby knees.
“Good thinking,” I told Harold.
He grinned. “What’s up, doc?”
It took an hour to get Hiram Dabney, aka the Easter Bunny, dressed, sobered up, and out of the mall in the company of a police officer who seemed to know him from his overnights in the local drunk tank. I arrived back at the security office, hair disheveled and knee aching, to find Joel grinning like a fool, obviously having heard all about the bunny striptease.
“Not one word,” I warned him.
Before he could reply, two people arrived simultaneously, and I turned to greet them, hoping they weren’t reporters. The first, a man wearing coveralls and carrying a toolkit said, “I’m here to fix the cameras?” The second, a statuesque redhead said, “I need to talk to Denny.”
“Thank heavens,” I said to the camera guy. I pointed to the bank of monitors. “Do your thing.” Joel cleared papers and office-supply clutter out of the way so the repairman had somewhere to spread out his tools.
“Sorry,” I said to the redhead. “Denny?”
She sighed heavily, rounded bosom rising and fallingunder a zip-up knit jacket. “Denny Woskowicz, the security guy.”
I stared at her. Talk about déjà vu all over again. She was taller and a few years younger than Nina, and her hair was a more coppery red, but she was enough like yesterday’s visitor to be her sister. It dawned on me a bit late that Captain Woskowicz’s first name was Dennis. “He’s not here,” I said. “He hasn’t been in since
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