I woke up the next morning with the pit bull slobbering on my wrist, frail pleading sounds deep in his throat. He loved me. I thought I'd better give him his medicine just the same. This hazy thought elongated and warped into a crazy little dream which led me straight back on the road to sleep. I was just about to disappear for another twenty minutes when an electric spike of panic stopped my heart for an instant and jolted me upright. I wildly rubbed and pressed my eyes to get some focus and to knock the sleep out of my head. I rocketed off the bed and down the hall to check on the Dalton Brothers. The door was opened and they were gone. I called and called, staggering around the apartment still asleep from the neck up.
The Yorkies were gone. Duro was off his leash and he had eaten the Dalton Brothers!
I was trying to decide whether to go to the trouble of framing an elaborate lie to tell Echo or just run for it. I would need a new name and papers... New York City Driver's License of course, uh... Social Security Card... What else? New fingerprints? The new identity would have to be good, airtight because Echo would track me down to the storied Ends of the Earth and subject me to an Edgar Allan Poe Pit and the Pendulum -style torture-slash-death...
Then I heard the pit bull huff and two higher voices chimed in. I looked down and there they were, all three of them, best of pals.
I stared at them while my heart rate returned to normal. The Dalton Boys were very happy at having a large friend able to reach high enough to get me out of bed. They were barking and playing, throwing themselves at the flanks of the pit bull and bouncing off like long haired black and tan soccer balls. Duro for his part paid them no attention. He just stared sadly pleading for his dope.
I got out of bed and wobbled to the kitchen. The Dalton Boys raced ahead yapping happily. Boy, was this fun!
I opened the cold water tap and let it run. The pit bull finally caught up, thumping along. His limp had gotten worse and now he was swinging his left foreleg out and around like a peg leg. I tossed the dog his fix and he caught it on the fly. It was a good trick. He would learn to sing the triumphal march from Aida if it would get him high. The chocolates were almost gone. When the cupboard was bare, our warm, drooling friendship might take an entirely different and unattractive turn.
I opened some food for the Yorkies and they scarffed it down. I even opened two or three cans for Duro but he was on the nod and showed no interest. I drank a glass of water and stared at the three dogs. Evidently the Dalton Boys had engineered their own escape some time in the night, come to the kitchen and convinced the pit bull to chew through his clothesline. One major problem: the Dalton Brothers long coats were mucked and gummy with pit bull shit. I had a problem there that I would have to handle after coffee.
I filled the coffee pot with Kenya AA, set it to work and examined my head for a plan.
One thing I knew was that men who would entrust their fates to Mickey Dolan were stupid enough to deserve everything that came their way and crazy enough to be dangerous; I'd seen more than one dead body that Teddy had ordered up in a fit of pique. I didn't know Cruz but he had to be more of the same.
My choices weren't great. Mickey's plan wouldn't work. Especially not when they learned how much he'd stolen from them. Drug dealers enjoy being victims even less than the rest of the population and they are in a position to do something about it. If I returned the records to them they'd find out they had been robbed and they'd never stop looking for him. After they killed me in some very painful way. However, that would happen no matter what we did now. Returning the books was the only chance Mickey had of cutting himself a way out of jeopardy and my survival, like it or not, was tied to his.
A slim chance at best is better than none. I was stuck with playing along. I didn't even have the option of going to the law. I didn't know enough about the operation and had nothing to offer. Also, Mickey's description of the downside of cooperation with the authorities was all too accurate. The Federal Government is not your friend in cases like this. At best, it becomes your keeper.
All I could do was try to play all ends against the middle and hope that when the body count was made, I'd be around to do the counting.
The big dog hobbled over to me drooling thin watery saliva that fell with little splashes to the floor. It started to rub its head against my leg, making little moans that were cut short by small grunts. He seemed to be in pain. I looked down at the big square head and smiled. My heart was warmed, all right. It was just the natural bonding of heavy drugs, but when I felt the warm ooze of dog saliva running down my ankle, I decided to take a shower. Before I did that I took the Dalton Boys one at a time and gave them haircuts that eliminated most of the filth. Then the three of us got into the shower together.
I had a Psycho shower scene fright when suddenly I saw the shape move across the frosted glass of the shower door. Then when I realized it was Echo, I really got scared. She was standing silently outside of the door. Her arms were crossed and I could picture the look of disbelief mixed with fury. She had a right to be miffed, I admit. I was toying with the idea of remaining in the shower forever, but the Dalton Brothers, soaking wet, were circulating noisily at my feet. Then, as one, they sensed Echo and started flinging themselves at the shower door. I opened the door a crack, set them out on the thick bath mat and closed the door again.
Echo screamed. I saw her grab a towel and gather the dogs up together in it as much to hide the sight of her now short haired dogs as to dry them off. I waited, drawing further back into the shower thinking hopelessly that maybe the shock would cause her to forget all about me. Finally Echo knocked on the door.
"Murphy. Come out of there now."
I opened the door and peeked out. There comes a point in lying where you either have to take leave of your senses and believe the impossible or simply give it up. I had exhausted my imagination and the look on Echo's face drained the resolve to be a scoundrel right out of me.
"Hi, honey. There's been some trouble."
*****
When I was clean and dressed, armored against the vicissitudes of an unkind world in a soft charcoal suit and a cashmere turtleneck, I explained the situation. Echo was silent, blow-drying the Dalton Boys who were sitting on her lap. I started to repeat the story of how the pit bull happened to arrive. She stopped me.
"You haven't told me why that dog was given to you. Whose dog is it? Why do you have to take it? Tell me exactly what's going on, Murphy."
So I took a deep breath and told all.
Echo was very quiet when I was done. Then she said, "How dangerous are these people?"
"On a scale of one to ten? About a seven - an eight maybe - and getting higher all the time. I think I can work it so they'll leave us alone."
"You think you can work it? Why don't we just call the police?"
"Echo, honey, the police usually aren't much help at this stage of the game. They like to come when everyone has already been killed and look for clues. I have to get us out of this."
"Jack, are our lives in danger?"
"I don't think so. Not really. But don't use your car until this is over. Take cabs. Better yet hire a limo."
She sighed and put the Daltons on the floor. They raced out to the kitchen to say hello to their friend the pit bull and Echo gasped and shouted, "No, no, no!" She stopped at the kitchen door and watched as the terriers played and climbed all over the old dog. He did nothing more than open one eye, look at the Daltons scrambling over his back, and close it.
I stood behind Echo and we watched the three dogs for a while.
"This is what you call consulting, isn't it, Jack?" She paused. "This is what you do, isn't it."
"It's in the general area, yes."
"It looks like you're simply in over your head. How could you keep this from me?"
"I'm sorry. But I thought you wouldn't be able to handle it"
"Oh, baby, please. No wonder we're having problems. Who do you think I am? I grew up around much worse than this. You should have been there when my grandfather was still alive. If you think daddy is a paranoid... Look Jackson, it's simply that I've lived with enough secrecy to qualify for the CIA. I'm tired of it. Just tell me everything from now on? Everything."
"Yes."
"I have a meeting at the Met today. I'm organizing a benefit gala for the Museum. I hope we'll all be alive to go."
"I'll take care of it, Echo."
She picked up her coat. "The first thing you have to do, is get that poor old dog some medical care. I've never seen such a sick animal. Will you do that?"
"I'll take care of it."
"Good."
"I'm sorry about the dog's haircuts."
"I actually like what you did. You could always become a dog groomer. If you get tired of a life of crime."
*****
I walked all the dogs together. I liked the Dalton Brothers' new haircuts, too. They looked spiky and more like real terriers. It brought out their rough and tumble qualities as they spilled across CPW at the end of their leads. Duro, however game he might be, was a pitiful sight, hobbling along behind. He needed Rehab. Real. Bad.
*****
Animal Medical Center is on East 62nd Street. It's the Mayo clinic for the city's pet population. They have all the facilities for complicated veterinary procedures. If your boa constrictor gets the croup it's the place to go. I figured it was my best shot for a dope fiend pit bull.
I had an appointment for twelve. I hadn't explained much over the phone, just said that my dog was a little sluggish. It was easier than explaining that old pupster was on the nod day and night. I brought along the last of the chocolate covered smack in case they wanted to take a look at what he'd been doing for recreational drugs. They asked me what doggie's name was. I decided to check the dog in under a pseudonym. I told them his name was Fred. Duro is no name for a dog, anyway. I'd hung up the phone and said, "What do you think, Fred?" The short walk to the Park had taken it all out of him and the dog was way down in heroin land, dreaming about the old days, tearing the heads off rainbow colored chickens.
The waiting area of Animal Medical Center is as filled with the murk of anxiety and depression as any hospital in the city. The dogs are frightened but trying hard to be good. The cats are ready to go back to the wild. The people are in worse shape. City life is lonely and city people love their pets. There weren't many exotic animals that day. The most unusual was a ferret. A shabbily genteel old lady was holding a toy poodle in her arms and emitting a constant stream of cooing into its face. The dog was trembling and dividing its time between licking the old woman's nose and keeping an eye out for the men in white. A mother and her two small children were huddling around a shoe box full of cotton that contained a sick parakeet. Compared to these heartwarming scenes I felt downright depraved: me and Fred, the junkie pit bull, tied to the end of a clothesline.
It took forty-five minutes but they finally called my name. I had to tug for a while before "Fred" would consent to get to his feet. Even when he was standing he didn't feel like walking. I pulled and he sat down on his haunches and slid a couple of feet over the tile floor. I shook the box and the last two chocolates rattled around inside. Still nothing doing.
The vet was a young man in his twenties named Bill. He had what I think of as a country face, round, freckled and open. I could picture him more easily behind the wheel of a Jeep Cherokee making the rounds of stables in the New Jersey hunt country than in Animal Bellevue. Suddenly Fred's bad leg gave out and Fred collapsed in a heap.
"Maybe you'll have to pick him up," the Vet said. I looked at him. I looked at the dog who was now busy washing the floor with his limp hanging chops.
"I've got a bad back," I said. I slipped my hand into the noose around the dog's neck the other hand on his bottom and slid him across the floor to the examining room. It was not a very edifying sight for the youngsters with the parakeet. It didn't do much for my back either, but it was a lot easier on my suit.
The two of us managed to lift Fred up onto a high stainless steel table. The vet started listening to the dog's heart and said cheerfully, "So, Fred, what seems to be the problem?" Fred groaned. He wasn't going to be any help. I told the vet a story that was close to the truth. Stray watchdog, drugged by evildoers, etc. He stared at me.
"Addicted to what?"
I opened the box of chocolates and showed it to him.
Then I said earnestly, "Bill, it's heroin and codeine, I think. Can you help him through withdrawal?"
The vet stepped back from the table. He opened his mouth once or twice. Then he said, "I'm not sure. This kind of thing has never come up before. I think I have to inform the police about something like..." He drifted into silence and stood frozen, mouth hanging open. I waited and let the problem shrink a little for him. Though the situation doesn't come up every day, it was a common enough occurrence among the bipeds in our community. Why not a dog?
He began to shake his head. I took that as a sign that he was back from the Twilight Zone.
"Look," I said, "It's not my dog. A guy left him with me. I'm just trying to do the right thing for the animal. It's not against the law for a dog to be addicted to drugs, is it?"
"I don't know! It's certainly against the law to be in possession of cocaine - "
"Codeine, I think. And heroin, of course - "
"Whatever! I'd have to report that."
I picked up the box and stepping on the peddle of a covered waste can dropped it in.
"As far as I know, it's just chocolate candy. I'm only repeating what I was told, okay? Gone. Now what?"
"Well... I don't know. I could get into trouble."
"If you have to tell somebody, be my guest. Can you treat the dog?"
"I suppose we can give him tranquilizers. Keep an eye on him." He put the stethoscope back on Fred's chest. "I've never done anything like this before. I can't guarantee anything. Hmm... Uh-oh. There's something here. A growth. Hmm." He ran his hands over the dog's flank, prodding in the area of the left foreleg thoughtfully. Fred moaned a little.
"Do your best. That's all you can do. What do you say?"
He slowly shook his head but I could see the problem was finally life-size. It was just another sick animal, after all.
"It'll make a hell of a story, won't it?" he said.
I nodded.
"Are you going to keep the dog?" he said.
"No. If you can fix him up, I'll find a home for him. Maybe I can get him a job guarding a gas station or something. Make him a useful member of society again."
The dog was lying flat on the examining table staring straight into nowhere. The vet smiled at him and patted his side. "That's right, Fred. We'll have you back out on the streets in no time."
Fred didn't put much into it but there was no mistaking his intent as he snapped feebly at his benefactor's hand.