Bounded on three sides by crepe myrtles and tamarinds interspersed among tall palms knee-deep in ferns, the property of Jacaranda Apartments gave the illusion of being surrounded by tropical jungle. Four tan stucco buildings rose three levels, each with a Spanish style red tile roof. A high wall of the same stucco buffered the apartments from the street. Spilling out of weathered planters on both sides of a head-high iron-grille gate, a profusion of multicolored crotons led into a small courtyard. Dallas could imagine the marketing copy: “Providing that little touch of the Alhambra right here in the heart of The Grove.” A pool-sized terracotta fountain anchored the central patio with brick walkways leading to four pods that comprised the complex. He found building C, which appeared to have two apartments per level, and climbed the wide staircase with its black filigree railing to the third level. Ms. Fairbanks’ apartment, number C-6, was on the left. He looked down on the lovely courtyard dozing in the sun and tried to imagine living in a place like this. He couldn’t see it. Sad to say, he couldn’t see himself living anywhere.
He reached the appointed door, painted black like the ironwork along the staircase. Putting his book bag down, he positioned himself directly in front of the peephole and pressed the buzzer. More waiting. It seemed most of his day had been spent waiting on someone — it was getting tedious. Impatient, he knocked a few times. At that moment, someone came up the staircase and unlocked the door to C-5. A nice-looking young man a little older than Dallas. Perfect haircut, perfectly matched navy shirt and khaki shorts, new deck shoes. Perfect smile, like a GQ model.
“I don’t think anybody’s home,” he said to Dallas.
“What? But I was supposed to meet…” His thoughts went into freefall.
“Maybe they moved out. Apartment’s been dark for a couple of days.”
“Moved?” No other words came into his brain.
“Pretty sure. Sorry, man, looks like you got jilted.”
“What? No, that’s not—”
GQ guy smiled again. “Not what?”
Dallas stared at him blankly. He could feel the stupid settling in, the armadillo-in-the-headlights fog of incomprehension leaking out of his ears.
“Do you know her name, the person who moved out?”
The guy screwed his mouth up, thinking. “Marilyn? Like the actress. I think she had a dog, terrier maybe?” He grinned and Dallas’ stomach flipped. There was something there…
“Say, you look a little unsteady. It’s really hot. Want to come in for a drink? Something with ice in it?”
Dallas was sweating. Was the guy hitting on him? Not that he minded, but that was absolutely not on today’s agenda. “No, sorry. I’m late for an appointment. Just thought I’d stop by before…” Before he lost his mind?
Marilyn Fairbanks’ neighbor shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He flashed another smile and went inside, closing the door quietly behind him. Dallas waited, then tried the buzzer to C-6 again. Knocked, tried the door handle. Nobody home. He consulted the card.
“Shit!” The address had changed. “Will you cretins make up your mind already?!” He was so tempted to tear up the cursed card and throw the pieces in the fountain, but he’d signed a contract and somebody was going to pay him to do the work. Where was it this time? “For fuck’s sake!” The address was just about as far away from Coconut Grove as you could get, way out in Hallandale, at least half an hour’s drive north. He considered his funds. Of the $40 his mother had given him, he’d spent a good chunk of it to get here. He’d have to thumb a ride to this new address if he wanted to have money to eat on for the next couple of days. If he managed to see this job to its conclusion with a yappy dog flapping at the end of a leash, he would damn well make sure that bonus paid for all his trouble.
It took three separate rides to get out to Hallandale, but Dallas was beyond determined at this point in the game. And that’s what it was, a huge honking game of gotcha orchestrated by whoever was pulling the strings of his fate these days. He walked down 9th Street, a long narrow residential strip of asphalt with sporadic sidewalks, looking for the house number on the card. Where had he gone wrong? He’d done alright in high school, had friends, made decent grades, aced his English classes. What had been the turning point into his current downward slide? It was hard to pinpoint… a subtle shift in attitude where he’d realized that all the blather he listened to in class was just that, and the knowledge that nobody, not even his most favorite professors, had a lock on the truth. It had all seemed so pointless.
Dogs barked at him from behind chainlink fences and big-wheel pickup trucks rolled past, sound systems thumping. Broken sections of sidewalk with weeds pushing through the cracks dotted long stretches where he had to walk along the shoulder of the road, careful not to get run over. He passed rows of concrete block houses baking in the sun, interspersed by a few partially wooded lots with slightly better houses set off from the road. Not the best part of town, for sure. Quite a come down, in fact, for Ms. Fairbanks. Had she lost her job and been forced to move? Why this far away? Sweating, he checked the house numbers on the mailboxes. Another block to go.
The little frame house under the live oaks was so well camouflaged by a dense privet hedge he’d walked right past it before he realized X marked the spot. He backtracked and went up the overgrown walk, stopped at the front steps, and checked the card once more, daring it to do what it did. The address was still correct, but the contractor’s name was different: Charlotte Birch. Dallas refused to be fazed. Fine. Marilyn Fairbanks had been abducted by aliens and her dog now belonged to someone named Birch. Whatever.
He knocked on the door with a little more force than normal. By now he was in a completely no-nonsense mood — get in there and get the job done. When there was no response within twenty seconds he banged again. The front door opened a crack and a tall slender woman with dark hair cut in a stylish bob peeked out at him.
“I’m here about the dog,” he said abruptly. “The dog walking job?” He tried to sound upbeat.
“Oh.” The door opened a little wider. “Come in,” said the woman who might be Marilyn, or Charlotte. She was barefoot and wore cutoff jeans and a tank top. Her attractive face had a haunted look, something hollow around the eyes and the tight, thin set of her mouth that telegraphed unease. Maybe she had an illness. Dallas followed her down a short hallway, wondering what her story was.
A very small dog, a terrier of some sort by the look of its pricked-up ears and sharp face, sat on its haunches in the middle of the living room. An ordinary looking dog, mostly white with caramel splotched ears, it stood up and wagged its docked tail. A Jack Russell, Dallas decided.
“This is Buster,” said the woman, gesturing toward the terrier. “I’m…Charlotte.”
Dallas nodded. “Dallas Hamilton. I was sent by the Limbus agency. To walk your dog for ten days,” he added, just so there was no mistake about the job.
“That’s a relief,” she said and plopped down into the shapeless cushions of an old sofa. Buster jumped up beside her, his flank pressed against her thigh. Charlotte crossed one long shapely leg over the other. “Well, Mr. Hamilton, please have a seat.”
Dallas perched on a weathered rocking chair that had probably been dragged in from the back deck, which he could see through glass doors that faced a small fenced back yard.
“Here’s the situation,” said Charlotte. “I work for an ad agency in downtown Miami, and often I’m not home until dark. That leaves Buster here by himself all day.”
“Sure,” Dallas offered, “he gets bored.”