Suddenly, the dog’s ears shot up like someone was shouting its name-and then it started moving, uncertain at first, coming around the pool and stopping. Again, its ears shot up. Still hesitant, it crossed the patio, circled the gas barbecue, and went toward the house, its ears going up and down. It went under the portico and up to the back door.
“I hope that dog don’t have a key,” Dodson said.
“The shit gonna get crazy now,” Bug said.
Cal remembered standing at the center island, eating takeout from a restaurant called the Natural. Barbecued tempeh with steamed kale and Jessica’s Vegan Quinoa with Edamame. He hadn’t quite figured out chopsticks yet, most of the food spilling onto the countertop and getting on his bathrobe. The book said this kind of diet would draw the toxins out of his body but it didn’t say it would taste nasty or have no taste at all. He was about to get the Krispy Kremes out of the fridge when a dog came through the doggie door. At first, Cal was overjoyed, thinking Hella had escaped from Kwaylud and run all the way back from Atlanta to be with his master. But Hella was a Rottweiler and this was a pit bull. A big black muthafucka. Fear trickled into Cal’s stomach, curdling the tempeh and shriveling the edamame. He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. The dog remained by the doggie door, its eyes adjusting to the rows of recessed lights and the reflections off the stainless steel appliances and the white marble floor. It looked more like a movie monster than somebody’s pet. Massive T. rex head, Iron Man chest, fangs like ivory daggers, its blacked-out pig eyes wide apart and ruthless. And it was panting slow. Heh… heh… heh… heh. The dog went still for a moment. Then it snarled, hunched down to get its legs underneath it, and launched itself across the kitchen like it was flung from a catapult.
“Oh SHIT!” Cal said. He turned for the door and caught a glimpse of the dog slipping on the travertine as it came around the island, sliding into the stove, a copper pot crashing to the floor. Cal ran into the hallway, his robe flapping open, the dog streaking after him with its ears pinned back, its nails scrabbling and clicking on the slippery floor. Cal got to the game room and juked between the chairs and tables, the dog right behind him. He saw his reflection in the sliding glass door, the dog about to pull him down like a lion on a wildebeest, but he one-hopped it from the sofa to the pool table and back down to the floor without breaking stride.
The dog went wide around the pool table giving Cal just enough time to reach the sliding door. He yanked it open, got outside and tried to close it but the dog was right on his heels, the heavy door slamming on its neck and holding it there like a hunting trophy. If the dog felt anything you couldn’t tell. It squirmed, twisted, and snarled, slinging drool off its fangs. Cal leaned into the door handle with both hands, his legs out behind him like he was pushing a car, the dog berserk with blood lust. Cal started screaming like he was already being ripped apart. His legs were giving out, he was losing leverage, his slippers slipping on the bricks.
The dog got its shoulders through the door and was wriggling the rest of its body through. Cal let go of the door and ran across the patio, the dog on him in three strides, grabbing the back of the robe, jerking him to a halt. Cal leaned forward like a plow horse, grunting and straining, but the dog was strong, yanking on the robe with its legs splayed out in front of it. Cal was crying and slowly sinking to his knees. He hoped he’d die quick and not get disfigured, be like one of those burn victims you could hardly stand to look at. He couldn’t hold out any longer, his knees were almost touching the ground-and then the robe ripped. Cal twisted free, stumbled forward, and went face-first into the pool. There was the shock of the temperature change and then it was peaceful, nothing but the sound of bubbles coming out of his nose. He thought he’d like to stay down here, away from the dog, away from the world-until he realized he couldn’t breathe. Panic seized his lungs. He kicked and pawed his way upward, breaking the surface, taking huge choking breaths.
The dog was at the edge of the pool, barking relentlessly, leaning out over the water. Cal couldn’t believe it when the beast dived in and started swimming right at him. This muthafucka was like the bad guy in Terminator 2. Cal tried to swim backward, flapping his arms and kicking, making more commotion than sharks in a feeding frenzy but staying in the same place. He was exhausted and every breath he took was mostly water. If he didn’t drown on his own, the dog would drag him under. He couldn’t go on anymore, too tired to dive or do anything else. The dog was approaching fast, only the blacked-out pig eyes above the surface.
The woman next door came out on her balcony. A rich bitch with nothing to do, always complaining about the music and the smell of weed. “The police are coming! The police are coming!” she shouted. Cal thought her next words were you fucking nigger but he might have imagined that. The dog didn’t seem to care and kept coming. Five feet away, four, three… Cal could see down its throat, smell its sour breath-and then its ears shot up like they had on the patio and it veered away. Cal had never been so happy in his whole life. With a new burst of energy, he flapped his way to the edge of the pool. And then he heard what the dog had heard. Sirens, and they were getting louder. He shouted at them: “I’m in the swimming pool! Help my ass!”
Isaiah watched the tape, trying to wrap his head around what he was seeing. Someone sent a dog to kill Cal? Someone used a dog like an assassin. Who would do that?
On the tape, Cal had made it to the edge of the pool, the woman next door yelling nonstop. The dog was in a panic, paddling furiously to get out of the pool.
“What’s the dog gonna do now?” Dodson said. “How’s he gonna get out?”
Isaiah focused on the trees at the back of the property. The man would come from there, nowhere else he could be. And then he appeared. He was wearing a ski mask, cargo shorts, a T-shirt that said THE WHITE STRIPES, and big rubber shoes like clogs.
“Who’s that?” Dodson said.
“Exactly,” Anthony said.
The man jogged across the lawn. Isaiah had him in his late twenties, five-ten or eleven, a hundred and sixty-five pounds, in good shape. He had an awkward up-and-down gait, his arms going back and forth like a speed-walker. The woman leaned over the railing to yell, as if she wasn’t being loud enough. He ignored her and drew a handgun with a long barrel. She screamed and fled inside. The man got to the pool and saw Cal way down at the end just as the flashing lights of a police car flickered red against the house next door. The cops were in the cul-de-sac. The man thought a moment, put the gun away, and said something to the dog. Then he walked alongside the pool, leading the dog to the shallow end. He jumped into the waist-deep water, grabbed the dog under its hindquarters, and lifted-shoved it over the edge of the pool and onto the cement. The man got out and the two of them trotted back into the trees.
Moments later, the police came around the side of the house with their guns drawn. Cal shouted at them, waved-and sank. The action was over but Charles and Bug were still watching the tape like this was the good part, chuckling and nudging each other.
“How a nigga gonna have a pool and can’t swim?” Charles said.
“I bet he don’t leave dry land for the rest of his life,” Bug said.
“You two niggas see something funny?” Cal said, freezing their shit. The cat was looking at them as if to say You unemployable muthafuckas are in trouble now. “’Cause what I see is your meal ticket almost drowned to death,” Cal said. “Oh there’s gonna be some housecleanin’ around here, y’all can believe that.”
The fellas got up and started moving around. Isaiah kept staring at the screen, trying to process what he’d seen.