Lorca leaves them to debate. He hoists two trash bags from the line and carries them outside. By the Dumpster, a dog the size of a standard amp wrestles a milk carton.
“Dog,” he says. “Come here.”
The dog abandons the battle and runs over. It throws itself onto the ground to announce its belly. “I know you.” Lorca fishes around its neck to find the tag.
Ciao! I’m Pedro.
I have a case of wanderlust.
If found, please call …
Cassidy stands behind him holding two more bags. “What’s that?” she says. “A dog?”
3:00 P.M
Already evening is blotting out the city. Shadows web in the alleys on Ninth Street. The illuminated crew houses of Boathouse Row reflect in the unimpressed Schuylkill. The factory near Palmer belches filth toward New Jersey. Clouds flinch across the mackerel sky, bottoms silvered by the retreating sun.
Vince and Darla smoke in front of Beauty Land while inside, Jodi throws the switch. The sign ignites in pink and gold bulbs. “Should we sing?” Darla says.
Lorca walks Pedro down South Street, a lightweight rope improvised for a leash, grateful for the errand. There is a phone call he needs to make in private. Even on citation-less days, Sonny has a preternatural interest in Lorca’s schedule, but the cop’s visit has triggered the full breadth of his anxiety. Where are you going? When will you be back? Sonny asked three times before Lorca left.
Pedro jockeys sideways, hoping to trick the leash off. He tries contrary directions. He darts through parted legs, leaving Lorca to apologize around the last-minute shoppers. At a Don’t Walk light, the dog whines, pleads.
“You’re not the only one trying to escape.” Lorca points to a cedar-colored Rottweiler across the street, also trying to rid itself of a leash while its owner is distracted on a phone call. The collar slips off after another thrust and the dog freezes, stunned by success. Then, as if realizing the temporary nature of its fortune, the dog unlocks and gallops down South Street. Muscles beaming, it cuts such a figure that Lorca forgets what he’s watching is dangerous. A little girl points mutely. “That dog is running,” she reports to her mother. The Rottweiler’s agenda is a pit bull puppy waiting at a corner with its owner. Before Lorca can cross, because by now he, Pedro, and the rest of the street have realized the impending danger, the Rottweiler clamps onto the puppy’s neck and lifts it over the holiday scene.
The pit bull’s owner blinks at the two-canine altercation, unable to speak. The Rottweiler thrashes the puppy with elation. Its owner arrives, bringing new information, that the dog is a she, and her name is—“Grace!” she says. “Drop it.” A police officer is urged through the crowd by worried shoppers. He raises his gun, which has the desired effect of widening his working circle.
Lorca becomes light-headed. He can’t get clear which dogs are fighting and which are trying to take his club. The dogs in the fight. The dog by his side. The cop with a gun. The cop at the door. These dogs will be okay, he thinks, because they are not real. He is some way making this happen. Isn’t he? These aren’t real onlookers. That isn’t real blood. They will find the money. He won’t lose his club. Louisa will get over whatever mortal sin he committed and call him back. Suddenly, he feels hopeful, helpful.
“You can’t pull a dog from a dog,” he offers.
“I know that,” the officer says. “Don’t you think I know that?” He fires a nervous shot into the sky. Someone near Lorca screams. The Rottweiler drops the puppy, which takes a few foggy steps before being collected by its owner.
The officer replaces his gun in the holster. “Yes,” he says to the puppy being tended by its owner. “Yes,” he says to the Rottweiler being recollared. “Yes,” he says to the sky where he deposited the bullet. He bats at perspiration on his neck. He is coming to terms. “I wasn’t sure for a second, guys,” he says. “But that will just about do it.”
3:05 P.M
Alex Lorca uses his key to let himself into his father’s apartment. The oniony smell of old drapes and carpet. The mail heaped against the door. In the bedroom’s honeyed light, Louisa folds clothes into suitcases. “You scared me,” she says, not looking scared. “I forgot you have a lesson.”
Alex perches in the doorway. “You colored your hair.”
“It’s too much.” She swats at it. “Do you think so?”
“It’s beautiful.” His voice is flat, unbiased. “You’re leaving.”
“What happened to my geranium?” She points to a weary plant on the sill. “It was healthy and strong three days ago. I told your father, don’t forget to water her. The one thing I asked. There’s no talking to that man.” She crosses to Alex and takes his chin in her hand. The immediacy of her never fails to please him. He can tell she’s been crying, but Louisa’s expression is always that of someone looking at some meaningful, tragic thing. Even when she’s chewing out a distributor for overcharging them. Even when she’s looking at him. “I’m leaving,” she says.
“That fat jag made you leave.”
“Don’t call your father names. One day he’ll be dead.”
“One day we’ll all be dead,” Alex says.
“Him first, though, because he eats like a farm animal.”
Alex doesn’t smile. He feels his life fast-forwarding, thwip-thwipping quicker than he can handle. “Where are you going?” he says.
“My brother’s for now. When I find a place, I’ll have a key made for you so you can crash when you come in from your mother’s house, instead of here. This place isn’t healthy. Nothing can grow.” She zips the suitcases. “Least of all future famous guitarists.”
Alex fidgets in the doorway. He doesn’t know what to do when she speaks like this. She is always telling him to watch his hands, or bringing home brochures from the city’s best music schools. But how would he ever get his father to approve? Lorca’s rule is no guitar. No matter how much Alex or Louisa pleads. From age six, however, Sonny and the guys had sneaked lessons whenever Lorca was at the club. Sometimes it was Sonny, sometimes Max, depending on who could get away. The last place Lorca would ever suspect, his own apartment.
Alex carries the suitcases. Louisa scoops up the plant and follows him into the main room.
“You and I,” she says, “are always going to be family.”
“Family,” he spits.
“Kid.” She only uses this word when she wants to remind him that she is older and, at least for another year, taller. “We’ll still talk every day. I’m still coming to hear you play tonight.”
“He won’t let me,” Alex says. “He said things changed.”
“That fat jag.” She slumps into a chair. “He’s blaming you for me. I’ll talk to him.”
“There’s no talking to that man,” he says.
A sound at the door startles them. Sonny enters the kitchen, holding the Snakehead guitar. “Louisa,” he says. “What a fun surprise. Haven’t seen you around.”
“I’m not here to disrupt your lesson,” she says. “Good to see you, Sonny.”
Sonny registers the suitcases. “Anything you want to talk about?”
She halts in the doorway. “I’d like to talk about why Lorca isn’t letting Alex play tonight.”
A bead of perspiration wends down Sonny’s forehead. “Things changed.”
“What changed?”
“Is that a geranium?” Sonny says. “They need indirect sunlight. Otherwise they get ashy.”
“Sonny.”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss club business, Louisa. He’ll kill me.”