“There have been some complications.”
“Complications?” Thorpe leaned in closer, raised an eyebrow. “What happened to your face?”
“I think I'm allergic to wool.”
“It looks like you rubbed your cheeks with sandpaper.”
I wrote, “I hate him” on my notepad.
“Look, Mr. Thorpe, Abigail Cummings doesn't have Marcus. But I may have an idea who does.”
“Who?”
“First, I need to ask you a few questions...”
#
My face was too sore for the ski mask again, so I opted for a nylon stocking.
It was hot.
I shifted positions on the branch I was sitting on, and took another look through the binoculars.
Nothing. The backyard was quiet. But thirty feet away, next to a holly bush, was either a small, brown anthill, or evidence that there was a dog on the premises.
I took out my pencil and reviewed my stake-out sheet.
9:46pm—Climbed tree.
9:55pm—My face hurts.
10:07pm—It really hurts bad.
10:22pm—I think I'll go see a doctor.
10:45pm—Maybe the drug store has some kind of cream.
I added, “11:07pm—Spotted evidence in backyard. Remember to pick up some aloe vera on the way home.”
Before I had a chance to cross my Ts, the patio door opened.
I didn't even need the binoculars. A man, mid-forties with short, brown hair, was walking a dog that was obviously a Shar-pei.
Though my track-team days were far behind me (okay, non-existent), I still managed to leap down from the tree without hurting myself.
The man yelped in surprise, but I had my gun out and in his face before he had a chance to move.
“Hi there, Mr. Ricketts. Kneel down.”
“Who are you? What do...”
I cocked the gun.
“Kneel!”
He knelt.
“Good. Now lift up that dog's back leg.”
“What?”
“Now!”
Glen Ricketts lifted. I checked.
It was Marcus.
“Leash,” I ordered.
He handed me the leash. My third dog in two days, but this time it was the right one.
Now for Part Two of the Big Plan.
“Do you know who I am, Glen?”
He shook his head, terrified.
“Special Agent Phillip Pants, of the American Kennel Club. Do you know why I'm here?”
He shook his head again.
“Don't lie to me, Glen! Does the AKC allow dognapping?”
“No,” he whimpered.
“Your dog show days are over, Ricketts. Consider your membership revoked. If I so much catch you in the pet food isle at the Piggly Wiggly, I'm going to take you in and have you neutered. Got it?”
He nodded, eager to please. I gave Marcus a pat on the head, and then turned to leave.
“Hold on!”
Glen's eyes were defeated, pleading.
“What?”
“You mean I can't own a dog, ever again?”
“Not ever.”
“But...but...dogs are my life. I love dogs.”
“And that's why you should have never stole someone else's.”
He sniffled, loud and wet.
“What am I supposed to do now?”
I frowned. Grown men crying like babies weren't my favorite thing to watch. But this joker had brought it upon himself.
“Buy a cat,” I told him.
Then I walked back to my car, Marcus in tow.
#
“Marcus!”
I watching, grinning, as Vincent Thorpe paid no mind to his expensive suit and rolled around on my floor with his dog, giggling like a caffeinated school boy.
“Mr. McGlade, how can I ever repay you?”
“Cash is good.”
He disentangled himself from the pooch long enough to pull out his wallet and hand over a fat wad of bills.
“Tell me, how did you know it was Glen Rickets?”
“Simple. You said yourself that he was always one of your closest competitors, up until his dog died earlier this year.”
“But what about Ms. Cummings? I talked to her on the phone. I even dropped the dog off at her house, and she took him from me. Wasn't she involved somehow?”
“The phone was easy—Ms. Cummings has a voice like a chainsaw. With practice, anyone can imitate a smoker's croak. But Glen really got clever for the meeting. He picked a time when Ms. Cummings was out of town, and then he spent a good hour or two with Max Factor.”
“Excuse me?”
“Cosmetics. As you recall, Abigail Cummings wore enough make-up to cause back-problems. Who could tell what she looked like under all that gunk? Glen just slopped on enough to look like a circus clown, and then he impersonated her.”
Thorpe shook his head, clucking his tongue.
“So it wasn't actually Abigail. It was Glen all along. Such a nice guy, too.”
“It's the nice ones you have to watch.”
“So, now what? Should I call the police?”
“No need. Glen won't be bothering you, or any dog owner, ever again.”
I gave him the quick version of the backyard scene.
“He deserves it, taking Marcus from me. But now I have you back, don't I, boy?”
There was more wrestling, and he actually kissed Marcus on the mouth.
“Kind of unsanitary, isn't it?”
“Are you kidding? A dog's saliva is full of antiseptic properties.”
“I was speaking for Marcus.”
Thorpe laughed. “Friendship transcends species, Mr. McGlade. Speaking of which, where's that Collie/Shepherd mix that Abigail gave you?”
“At my apartment.”
“See? You've made a new friend, yourself.”
“Nope. I've got a six o'clock appointment at the animal shelter. I'm getting him gassed.”
Thorpe shot me surprised look.
“Mr. McGlade! After this whole ordeal, don't you see what amazing companions canines are? A dog can enrich your life! All you have to do is give him a chance.”
I mulled it over. How bad could it be, having a friend who never borrowed money, stole your girl, or talked behind your back?
“You know what, Mr. Thorpe? I may just give it a shot.”
When I got home a few hours later, I discovered my new best friend had chewed the padding off of my leather couch.
I made it to the shelter an hour before my scheduled appointment.
? SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1?Street Music
Street Music is my favorite story of any I've written. Phineas Trout was the hero of my first novel, an unpublished mystery called Dead On My Feet, written back in 1992. It was unabashedly hardboiled, and it helped me land my first agent. The book never sold, probably because it was unabashedly hardboiled. Phin starred in two more unpublished novels, and then I relegated him to the role of sidekick in the Jack Daniels series, which did wind up selling. I'm intrigued by the idea of a hero dying of cancer, and how having no hope left could erode a man's morality. I wrote this story right after selling Whiskey Sour, and soon after sold it to Ellery Queen.
Mitch couldn't answer me with the barrel of my gun in his mouth, so I pulled it out.
“I don't know! I swear!”
If that was the truth, I had no use for it. After three days of questioning dozens of hookers, junkies, and other fine examples of Chicago's populace, Mitch was my only link to Jasmine. I was seriously jonesing; I hadn't done a line since Thursday. Plus, the pain in my side felt like a baby alligator was trying to eat its way out of my pancreas.
I gave Mitch's chin a little tap with the butt of the Glock.
“I really don't know!”
“She's one of yours, Mitch. I thought big, tough pimps like you ran a tight ship.”
His black face was shiny with sweat and a little blood. Sure, he was scared. But he wasn't stupid. Telling me Jasmine's whereabouts would put a dent in his income.
I raised the gun back to hit him again.
“She went rogue on me, man! She ditched!”
I paused. If Jasmine had left Mitch, his reluctance to talk about it made some sense. Mack Daddies don't like word to get out that they're losing their game.