“Did you bring the money?”
“I did, and I—wait a second!”
“You might as well just throw away the sock, because those stains...”
“That's not Marcus!”
I looked at the dog, who was sniffing around my desk, searching for another place to make a deposit.
“Of course it's your dog. Look at that face. He's a poster boy for Retin-A.”
“That's not a he. It's a she.”
“Really?” I peeked under the dog's tail and frowned. “I'll be damned.”
“You took the wrong dog, Mr. McGlade. This is Abigail's bitch, Julia.”
“It's an honest mistake, Mr. Thorpe. Anyone could have made it.”
“No, not anyone, Mr. McGlade. Most semi-literate adults know the difference between boys and girls. Would you like me to draw you a picture?”
“Ease up, Thorpe. When I meet a new dog, I don't lift up a hind leg and stick my face down there to check out the plumbing.”
“This is just...oh, yuck.”
“The garbage can is over there.”
Thorpe removed his sock, and I wracked my brain to figure out how this could be salvaged.
“Any chance you want to keep this dog instead? You said she was a magnificent broad.”
“Bitch, Mr. McGlade. It's what we call female dogs.”
“I was trying to put a polite spin on it.”
“I want Marcus. That was the deal.”
“Okay, okay, let me think.”
I thought.
Julia had her nose in the garbage can, sniffing Thorpe's sock. If I could only switch dogs somehow.
That was it.
“I'll switch dogs somehow,” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Like a hostage trade. I'll call up Ms. Cummings, and trade Julia for Marcus.”
“Do you think it'll work?”
“Only one way to find out.”
I picked up the phone.
#
“Ms. Cummings? I have your dog.”
“I know. I watched you steal him an hour ago.”
For someone who looked like a mime, she was sure full of comments.
“If you'd like your dog back, we can make a deal.”
“Is my little Poopsie okay? Are you taking care of her?”
“She's fine. I can see why you call her Poopsie.”
“Does Miss Julia still have the trots? Poor thing.”
I stared at the land mines dotting my floor. “Yeah. I'm all broken up about it.”
“Make sure she eats well. Only braised liver and the leanest pork.”
Julia was currently snacking on a tuna sandwich I'd dropped under the desk sometime last week.
“I'll do that. Look, I want to make a trade.”
I had to play it cool here, if she knew I knew about Marcus, she'd know Thorpe was the one who hired me.
“What kind of trade?”
“I don't want a female dog. I want a male.”
“Did Vincent Thorpe hire you?”
Dammit.
“Uh, never heard of him.”
“Mr. Thorpe claims I have his dog, Marcus. But the last time I saw Marcus was at an AKC show last April. I have no idea where his dog is.”
“That's not how he tells it.”
Nice, Harry. I tried to regroup.
“Look, Cummings, you have twelve hours to come up with a male dog. I also want sixty dollars, cash.”
Thorpe nudged me and mouthed, “Sixty dollars?”
I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “Carpet cleaning.”
“I don't know if I can find a male dog in just 12 hours, Mr. Dognapper.”
“Then I turn Julia into a set of luggage.”
I heard her gasp. “You horrible man!”
“I'll do it, too. She's got enough hide on her to make two suitcases and a carry-on. The wrinkled look is hot this year.”
I scratched Julia on the head, and she licked my chin. Her breath made me teary-eyed.
“Please don't hurt my dog.”
“I'll call you tomorrow morning with the details. If you contact the police, I'll mail you Julia's tail.”
“I...I already called the police. I called them right after you left.”
Hell. “Well, don't call the police again. I have a friend at the Post Office who gives me a discount rate. I'm there twice a week, mailing doggie parts.”
I hit the disconnect.
“Did it work?” Thorpe asked.
“Like a charm. Go home and get some rest. In about twelve hours, you'll have your dog back.”
#
The trick was finding an exchange location where I wouldn't be conspicuous in a ski mask. Chicago had several ice rinks, but I didn't think any of them allowed dogs.
I decided on the alley behind the Congress Hotel, off of Michigan Avenue. I got there two hours early to check the place out.
Time crawled by. I kept track of it in my notepad.
9:02am—Arrive at scene. Don't see any cops. Pull on ski mask and wait.
9:11am—It sure is hot.
9:33am—Julia finds some rotting fruit behind the dumpster. Eats it.
10:01am—Boy, is it hot.
10:20am—I think I'm getting a heat rash in this mask. Am I allergic to wool?
10:38am—Julia finds a dead rat. Eats it.
10:40am—Sure is a hot one.
11:02am—Play fetch with the dog, using my pencil.
Julia ate the pencil. I was going to jot this down on the pad, but you can guess how that went.
“Julia!”
The dog jerked on the leash, tugging me to my feet. Abigail Cummings had arrived. She wore a pink linen pants suit, and more make-up than the Rockettes. All of them, combined. I fought the urge to carve my initials in her cheek with my fingernail.
Dog and dog owner had a happy little reunion, hugging and licking, and I was getting ready to sigh in relief when I noticed the pooch Abigail had brought with her.
“I'm no expert, but isn't that a Collie?”
“A Collie/Shepherd mix. I picked him up at the shelter.”
“That's not Marcus.”
Abigail frowned at me. “I told you before, Mr. Dognapper. I don't have Vincent Thorpe's dog.”
Her bottom lip began to quiver, and her eyes went glassy. I realized, to my befuddlement, that I actually believed her.
“Fine. Give me the mutt.”
Abigail handed me the leash. I stared down at the dog. It was a male, but I doubted I could fool Thorpe into thinking it was Marcus. Even if I shaved off all the fur and shortened the legs with a saw.
“What about my money?” I asked.
She dug into her purse and pulled out a check.
“I can't take a check.”
“It's good. I swear.”
“How am I supposed to remain incognito if I deposit a check?”
Abigail did the lip quiver thing again.
“Oh my goodness, I didn't even think of that. Please don't make Julia into baggage.”
More tears.
“Calm down. Don't cry. You'll ruin your...uh...make-up.”
I offered her a handkerchief. She dabbed at her eyes and handed it back to me.
It looked like it had been tie-dyed.
“I think I have two or three dollars in my purse,” she rasped in her smoker voice. “Is that okay?”
What the hell. I took it.
“I'll take those Tic-Tacs, too.”
She handed them over. Wint-O-Green.
“Can we go now?”
“Go ahead.”
She turned to leave the alley, and a thought occurred to me.
“Ms. Cummings! When the police came to visit you to look for Marcus, did you have an alibi?”
She glanced over her shoulder and nodded vigorously.
“That's the point. The day Vincent said he brought the dog to my house, I wasn't home. I was enjoying the third day of an Alaskan Cruise.”
#
Vincent Thorpe was waiting for me when I got back to my office. He carefully scanned the floor before approaching my desk.
“That's not Marcus! That's not even a Shar-pei!”
“We'll discuss that later.”
“Where's Marcus?”