“Don’t shoot,” I shouted, leveling my gun at Bass.
“Don’t you shoot,” he said, trying to get a firmer grip on the black furry bundle under his left arm. Somewhere in the corner a dog began to howl like a coyote in a Republic Western.
“I’m not shooting,” I assured him, getting to my knees.
“I’m not shooting,” Bass said, taking a step forward.
“And you’re not coming any closer, either,” I said.
“I’m not coming any closer,” he said. “You got the money?”
“How do I know that’s the right dog?” I said, avoiding the question.
“It’s the right dog,” Bass said, glancing down at the dog in case someone had switched dogs on him in the last few seconds. “You can believe me.”
“Thanks,” I said, getting up without touching any of the nearby cages, which might have given me stability but resulted in the loss of a finger or three.
“The money,” he repeated.
“The dog first,” I said.
The howling dog in the corner paused. The shepherd showed his teeth and an orange cat in a cage behind Bass circled and circled and circled. The little black dog under Bass’s arm looked at me with his mouth open.
“He said I had to see the money first,” Bass said, holding the gun up about level with my neck.
“He?” I said.
“The money,” he shouted. “I’m getting mad here.”
“Bass,” I said. “Someone has set you up. You’re the one who can be identified, the one who has the dog. He’s likely to deflate your head and walk away free with the bundle.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” Bass said, tossing his head to clear the blond strands of hair dangling across his eyes. “Look, I don’t want to hold this dog any more. I’m afraid he’ll want to poopie or something.”
“Poopie?” I said. “Figures. You’d be holding the dog and the crap.”
“The money,” he said again, shifting the dog higher under his arm.
“I didn’t bring it,” I said, holding my.38 level and hoping he didn’t start shooting. I should have leveled the gun at his head and fired. It was a risk. I was about ten feet from him and might have hit the dog or the wall or just about anything. The pistol is not my best weapon. I’m not sure what my best weapon is, probably the ability to tire out an arm-weary opponent. “I’ve got it out in my car and I don’t tell you where my car is until I have the dog. You might just take the money and shoot me.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Bass said, a tiny trickle of sweat dribbling down his smooth forehead. “I want to get you in my hands. You know the Australian clutch? I tore Butch Feifer s right arm almost off with it in ’37. That’s what I want to do to you. You made me look dumb with that guy in the warehouse.”
“That was Buster Keaton, and he made you look like a cross-eyed nun. We can’t stand here all night. One of us will get cramps and start shooting and you can’t keep holding that dog.”
“I could hold the dog all night,” he said with pride. “I could hold the dog and the gun and never blink my eyes, not once. I could stand here till you get tired and blink, and then I could get you.”
“Well, pal,” I said. “I’d like to keep this conversation going for a while. I really would. It’s not often I get a chance to talk to someone like you or Clifton Fadiman, but that’s not going to get things taken care of. Can I make a suggestion?”
“No,” he said. I thought I could sense or see his finger tightening on the trigger.
“You win,” I said. “I’ll tell you where the car is. We can go together, down the street, guns on each other, dog under your arm, and make some excuse to the crowds who gather on Sherman Way to watch us.”
“I’m not good at excuses,” Bass said reasonably “I’m not good at anything but hurting”
“And that’s something to be proud of,” I said, watching more beads of sweat come down his brow. “And stop inching forward or I’ll shoot a hole through your shoes.”
He stopped but I could see that his attention span was not long, and rather than struggle to keep up the conversation, he would probably start shooting even if it meant the death of both of us.
“You got a family, Elmo?” I said, shifting the.38 to my left hand.
The question puzzled him. “Family?” he asked, glancing down at the dog in his arm as if it could answer this tough one.
“You know, father, mother, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, things like that?” As I asked the question I pretended to take a deep breath and moved my right leg a step toward the door.
“Everybody has a mother,” he said suspiciously. “You don’t get born without a mother. You making fun of my mother too?”
“I’m not making fun,” I said, calculating my chances of getting back to the hall. The howling dog behind me was going wild. “I’m trying to get to know you. Your mother ever see you wrestle?”
“My mother’s a Methodist,” he said threateningly.
“Fine with me,” I said. The gun had dropped a fraction and was aimed at the right side of my chest and not the middle. “And your father?”
“My father’s …” he began, but I never found out what his father was because I went out the door.
Bass was fine on his feet but he left a hell of a lot to be desired with a pistol. By the time he got off a shot I was in the dark hall. The animals behind me were going mad, and as I turned to aim at the door in case he followed me, I lost my.38 again. I had been fascinated by the sweat on Bass’s brow as he looked down at my pistol. But I hadn’t noticed my own body fluids. The gun had flown out of my sweating hand as I went through the door.
Light from the animal room cut far down the hall. I scrambled for Olson’s office. I’d go for the window, hide in the dark, and fight another day. I could hear Bass coming for me when I found the right door and pushed through. A bullet crackled into the hall behind me, and I stumbled forward for the window. My hand hit something on the desk, and I tripped forward to the sound of classical music filling the room. I almost made it to the window, would have, too, if I hadn’t hit my leg on the corner of the one chair in the room. Pain from my sore rib shot through me as the light came on.
“No,” Bass shouted.
I stopped and turned around slowly.
“I’ll get the money,” I said over the sound of a happy flute and violin.
“I don’t believe it,” Bass said, advancing on me, the confused black Scottie still under his arm. “I don’t believe someone who laughs at a person’s mother.”
“I never …” I began, my back against the window, but he wasn’t listening. He put the black dog down. Then he put his gun away and took a step toward me.
“You do something to me, and you’ll never get the money,” I warned, one hand out to stop him.
“I never wanted the money, he said. The violins went mad behind us and the little black dog decided to leap into my arms instead of running for cover. I caught him and considered throwing him at the advancing Bass, whose gray eyes danced with joy at the prospect of hurting.”
“I’m going to do you,” he said.
The dog licked my face. I dropped him gently to the ground, turned slowly to Bass and said, “You’re giving …”
The idea was reasonably good. I’d used it before, in fact a few seconds earlier in the animal room. It worked this time too. Bass never knew the punch was coming. It was perfect; a hard, short right to the solar plexus followed by a left to the side of his head. I can’t say the punches had no effect on Bass-after all he was almost human-but the effect registered very low on his Richter scale. My left hand hurt like hell.
“Okay,” I said, breathing heavily as his hand found my neck. “Now you know I mean business.”
“I’m going to turn your head around,” he said happily. “I can do it. I did it once.”
“I believe you,” I said, preparing my last move, a knee to the groin, which I was afraid would either have no effect or be stopped by the former pro. I never had the chance to find out.