Showoff

by Gordon Korman

  Griffin peered over his shoulder. “Hey, they’ve got a list of all the winners. Do you see Luthor’s name in there anywhere?”

  Ben shook his head. “When you dream, you sure dream big! These are the winners, not the fleeing fugitives.”

  “They could have other categories,” Griffin argued. “You know — Most Improved, Mr. Congeniality. Remember, they might have him down as Lex Luthor Savannah Spritz-o-matic.”

  “I think it’s safe to say that Luthor avoided the winners’ circle,” Ben assured him. “But look — remember Emma, that girl who hates us? Her poodle, Jasmine, won Best in Group. According to this reporter, a lot of people had her figured to beat Xerxes for the top prize.”

  “Really? Is there a picture?” He snatched the paper from Ben’s hand, planting a coffee stain on his lap.

  Ben regarded him in surprise. “What’s the big interest? She treated us like pond scum.”

  Griffin flushed and changed the subject. “Oh, look — a dog named Schroeder won for the Dobermans. I think he belongs to that idiot with the stick-out mustache who was bad-mouthing Luthor to the judge.”

  They gazed out the window as the train rattled along. The green of Long Island began to give way to the brick buildings and clogged roadways of New York’s outer boroughs. They disembarked in Flushing and followed Melissa’s map through the crowded streets. Although the sidewalks were jam-packed, space opened up in front of them as if by magic. Nobody wanted to tangle with the big dog.

  Off the main drag, the streets were confusing, becoming a narrow and irregular grid. They found Packard Lane with some difficulty, and stood on the pavement, staring in dismay. There was number 2; there was number 4. On the opposite side was number 3. There was no 2½ Packard Lane.

  “Where’s the restaurant?” Ben breathed. “Where’s the Shaolin Palate?”

  Griffin pointed wordlessly. At the edge of the building, where number 2 and number 4 met, five narrow, steep steps led down to an almost-hidden door that was covered by a faded sticker peeling off the glass window. It read:

  THESE PREMISES

  CONDEMNED BY ORDER

  OF NYC BOARD OF HEALTH

  In the marks left by what had once been brass numbers, they could make out a faint outline — 2½. The only other window, almost opaque with dirt, was broken and partially boarded up.

  Griffin cleaned off a small circle with his sleeve. “It used to be a restaurant,” he confirmed. “I can see tables and chairs.” He stepped back, his shoulders slumped with despair. “Why me?”

  “Yeah,” Ben agreed sarcastically. “Who would have thought that a classy place like this would ever be shut down by the Board of Health?”

  “It’s not the restaurant, it’s the plan!” Griffin raved. “We’re right back to square one! How are we going to find the guy now?”

  It was as they were straggling back up the stairs, utterly defeated, that Ben tapped his friend on the shoulder. “Hey — if this place has been out of business for a long time, how come some guy is sweeping up in there?”

  Griffin turned back. It was true. An indistinct figure, obscured by the dirty glass and the wood that sealed the broken window, was navigating a push broom across the floor of the derelict building.

  He knocked on the window. “Hey, mister!”

  The man didn’t seem to hear him.

  Griffin tried again, daring to knock harder this time. “Please — we have to ask you a question!”

  A moment later, an immense shape appeared behind the CONDEMNED sticker. They heard the click of about seven locks, and the door opened to reveal a massive man with shoulder-length black hair, a bushy mustache, and a full beard.

  “What question?” he growled.

  “We’re looking for someone — a famous dog handler named Dmitri Trebezhov,” said Griffin.

  “You may stop looking,” said the big man. “The person you seek is dead.”

  Griffin was devastated. “How did he die?”

  “It was a great tragedy. His hot-air balloon was shot down over a mine field. At least he did not suffer. Now, away with both of you and your dog and your weasel.”

  “He’s a ferret!” Ben said to the slamming door.

  For a long moment, they stood there, staring, but making no motion to leave.

  It was Ben who finally broke the silence. “You know, I don’t pretend to be the smartest person in the world, but this guy’s full of it! Hot-air balloons and minefields! I’ll bet he doesn’t even know Dmitri Trebezhov!”

  Griffin nodded glumly. “Maybe we’re not the first people to show up looking for the guy. He’s probably got a crazy story for everybody who knocks on that door. Let’s blow this Popsicle stand.”

  They started up the stairs. Griffin tugged on Luthor’s leash. “Come on, buddy. There’s nothing for us here.” Yet the dog was strangely reluctant to leave, and kept looking back as they ascended to street level. “Move it, Luthor. We’ve got a long ride home.” Still the Doberman hesitated, and assumed a stubborn look that the boys recognized all too well.

  “What’s with him?” Ben complained. “He’s acting like that’s Disneyland back there.”

  “Tell me about it,” groaned Griffin. “It’s like trying to get him away from Savannah’s house.” He frowned at what he had just heard himself say. “In fact, it’s exactly like trying to get him away from Savannah’s house.”

  “That makes no sense at all,” Ben scoffed. “Savannah’s house was his home. This is an old restaurant, shut down by the health department.”

  “There might be one similarity,” Griffin began slowly. “The Drysdales have a dog whisperer in residence. And if this place has one, too …”

  15

  Ben gawked. “You’re not saying that Sasquatch is Dmitri Trebezhov! You saw the picture! It looks nothing like him! He was as bald as an egg!”

  “Hair can be shaved,” Griffin mused. “And it can grow back. Remember the eyes? Two black lasers? This guy has those eyes!”

  Ben was beginning to come around. “He does seem like the kind of person who would register his website under I. HateYou.”

  Griffin clattered back down the stairs and rapped on the door. “Mr. Trebezhov, we know it’s you. Open up.”

  “Go away.”

  “We can’t,” Ben pleaded. “We have a dog who needs you.”

  “Dmitri is no longer in the dog business.”

  Griffin seized on this. “But you were once! You were the greatest ever! And if you loved dogs then, you still love them now!”

  The door opened a crack, and the hairy face appeared, laser eyes transfixing the boys. “Dmitri does not merely love dogs. They are my brothers and my sisters, and the sun that warms their fur also warms mine. It is because of this love that I reject any competition that imposes on dogs a standard of perfection no human could ever measure up to. Do you believe that, because dogs have no words, their souls are not crushed by the pressure we force on them? Enough! Your Doberman will thank me for sparing him the torment. Tails should never wag to impress a judge, but only from true happiness.”

  “But he’ll die!” Griffin wailed.

  The legendary handler took in Luthor’s obvious health and vigor. “You are ridiculous. Why should he die?”

  “You must have heard about what happened to Electra,” Griffin began. “Well, Luthor is the dog who caused that whole accident.”

  The shaggy handler stiffened. “Is this true?”

  “He didn’t do it on purpose!” Ben jumped in. “He just kind of — went nuts. It could happen to anybody!”

  Griffin glared at him. “You’re not helping!” he hissed.

  But Dmitri addressed his comments to Luthor himself. “I thank you, my brother, and our sister Electra thanks you, too. Her life is once more her own. And although her tail is now crooked, she may wag it on her own terms.”

  “But that’s only the start of it,” Griffin insisted. He explained about the lawsuit, and how the Drysdales had been forced to give up Luthor to
try to protect themselves financially. And he described the birth of Operation Doggie Rehab to turn Luthor into a show dog, and use his winnings to settle up with Electra’s owners.

  The burning eyes grew wide. “And you expect to do this in reality?”

  Griffin nodded firmly. “That’s the plan.”

  Dmitri Trebezhov threw back his head and brayed a laugh that rattled the shards of glass still in the window frame. “Commendable, my young friend. You are completely insane.” And he slammed the door again.

  “Well,” Ben said resignedly, “I guess that’s it. We did our best.”

  “We haven’t even started!” said Griffin through clenched teeth.

  Ben quailed. In all the years he had known Griffin, he had never seen such intensity on the face of The Man With The Plan. It was downright scary.

  Griffin ripped Savannah’s pillowcase out from under his belt, waved it in front of Luthor’s nose, and then stuffed it through an iron grating down into the sewer below.

  The whites of Luthor’s eyes turned red like the hot coals of a fireplace. The angry bark that was torn from his throat drowned out the street noises from the city around them. There was nothing in the air but this dog and his all-consuming fury.

  Ben did not hesitate. He climbed the nearest lamppost, and was four feet off the ground before daring to look down. What he saw almost stopped his heart. Griffin hadn’t moved an inch, his jaw stuck out defiantly. Still roaring his anger, Luthor tensed, ready to spring at this human who had robbed him of his final connection to his beloved Savannah.

  “Run!” Ben squeaked.

  And then a third figure was on the scene. Dmitri Trebezhov interposed his six-foot-five-inch frame between Griffin and the enraged Doberman. Through his terror, Ben had to admit that he had never beheld anyone so calm, so peaceful, so serene. The dog whisperer raised a single pinkie finger, and held it steady until all Luthor’s attention was focused on it.

  Looking down from the pole, Ben could almost see the tension draining out of Luthor’s muscular body. Dmitri lowered his hand, and the dog settled to the sidewalk as if manipulated by remote control. The big Russian dropped to his knees and gathered Luthor into his embrace, speaking soothingly: “Be calm, my brother. Life is hard, but we are strong, you and I.”

  Luthor whined submissively and nuzzled up to the handler. Ben dared to come down from the lamppost. He had only ever seen Luthor acting like this with Savannah. This man was not just a dog whisperer; he was a miracle worker!

  Dmitri stroked the dog lovingly, murmuring endearments in English and Russian. All at once, the large man sat bolt upright, plucking something out of the ruff below Luthor’s collar. “What is this?”

  Ben squinted. “A thorn?”

  Griffin looked closer. “It’s metal. And pointy.”

  The handler’s face was a thundercloud. “Dmitri will enlighten you. It is the tip of a dart. Note the small barbs near the point. Their purpose is to keep it lodged in the hide. And here” — he ruffled Luthor’s short fur — “is the place where it broke the skin.”

  Griffin was mystified. “But why would anybody shoot Luthor?”

  “Luthor was the target of the dart,” Dmitri explained gravely, “but he was not the target of the attack. The dart was tipped with an irritating ointment designed to drive this poor fellow into a rampage. This is why he injured Electra at your mall. Someone made him do it.”

  “So you’re saying that Luthor’s innocent?” Ben asked, bug-eyed. “And the whole thing was an attack on Electra?”

  The big man nodded. “You see now why Dmitri wants nothing more to do with the world of dog shows. The stakes are too high, the rewards too great, the competition too cutthroat, the handlers too ruthless. People will stop at nothing to better their position.”

  Griffin was irate. “This dog went to the pound! He could have been put down! It might still happen! Who would do such a horrible thing?”

  “Anyone who stands to benefit from Electra’s absence,” Dmitri replied evenly. “And that means everybody. Electra was the number one dog in the world. With her out of competition, every other animal moves up one space.”

  “Maybe we should go to the cops,” Ben suggested. “We can show them the dart and the puncture on Luthor’s neck. That’s proof that the accident wasn’t his fault.”

  “It’s only proof that we’re trying to save our friend’s dog.” Griffin sighed. “For all the police know, we got the evidence at Darts R Us.”

  They lapsed into a melancholy silence, contemplating a bleak future. Of all the awful things that had happened, surely this was the worst. To have the evidence right in front of them, and to know that no one would ever believe it. Even Ferret Face wore a mournful expression as he nosed between the second and third buttons of Ben’s shirt. They felt terrible for Luthor, for Savannah, and especially for themselves. The wasted hours, the futile planning, and the undeniable fact that neither would admit out loud — that they were coming to love this doomed dog they both still very much feared.

  So wrapped up were they in their own unhappy thoughts that they were totally unprepared for Dmitri’s next words:

  “I will do this thing.”

  “Huh?” Griffin managed.

  “Dmitri will right this wrong by turning your Doberman into a great champion.”

  “That’s awesome —” Griffin began.

  “It is not!” the handler thundered. “I vowed never to return to that world. But return I must in order to save this magnificent animal.”

  Griffin turned to Ben. “See? I told you he was magnificent.”

  “He is not yet,” the handler said smugly. “But when Dmitri is through with him, he will be.”

  16

  Mr. Drysdale peered out the picture window of the lake house. His family was down on the thin strip of beach. The sun was shining, the water was sparkling, the day was perfect. Yet the black cloud that surrounded his daughter Savannah cast a gloom over an idyllic scene. Even from this distance, her melancholy was almost tangible. He could barely remember the last time he’d seen her smile, although he was sure he could name the date. June 26, the day before Electra’s mall appearance that had changed everything.

  And if Savannah’s mood was a downer, the monkey, Cleopatra, was even worse. Clinical depression, the vet said. She had suggested a primate psychiatrist. The thought drove him mad. Two hundred dollars an hour to shrink the head of a capuchin monkey whose head couldn’t really get very much smaller without disappearing. It was not a good investment for a man with a seven-million-dollar lawsuit hanging over his head.

  His cell phone rang, and he picked up. “Rick Drysdale.”

  “Hi, Mr. Drysdale. It’s Griffin Bing. Is Savannah there?”

  “Sorry, she can’t come to the phone. She’s at the beach.” For a moment, he toyed with the idea of running the cell out to his daughter. Maybe a familiar voice from home would be the cheering up she needed. Then again, home might be just another reminder of what she’d lost. He couldn’t risk that.

  “Could you ask her to call me at Ben Slovak’s house?” Griffin requested. “We have good news. It turns out Luthor wasn’t really responsible for what happened to Electra. Somebody shot him with a tiny dart to make him go nuts.”

  His daughter’s friend had all Mr. Drysdale’s attention now. “How could you possibly know something like that?”

  “We found the dart and the puncture wound on Luthor’s neck,” Griffin explained.

  For one brief shining instant, a seven-million-dollar weight began to lift from his bent shoulders. Could this be true? Then he remembered who he was talking to — Griffin Bing, the king of cockamamie ideas. “Wait a minute!” Mr. Drysdale said suddenly. “Why do you have the dog? We left him at the pound!”

  “I can’t really go into all of it over the phone,” Griffin said evasively. “But please give the message to Savannah, okay? There’s a lot going on that she needs to know about.”

  “Certainly,” said Mr. Drysdale, a
nd hung up. There was only one thing certain about this call: Savannah was never going to hear of it. The Drysdale family was on the brink of disaster with this lawsuit. The last thing they needed was to involve The Man With The Plan.

  For the second time that week, Griffin and Ben presented themselves at the door of 2½ Packard Lane. Griffin inserted the small key in the lock behind the CONDEMNED sticker, and the two let themselves into what was left of the Shaolin Palate.

  Ben knew a moment’s hesitation. “I hope Luthor’s okay.”

  Griffin shrugged. “Why wouldn’t he be? He’s with the best dog trainer in history.”

  “That was three years ago,” Ben retorted. “Today, the guy’s Mr. I. HateYou. For all we know, the dog’s chopped into fish bait, and we’re next.”

  “Don’t be such a baby,” Griffin scoffed. But he had to admit there was something intimidating about walking through the wreckage of a long-abandoned restaurant with its broken and overturned furniture and peeling wallpaper. If Dmitri had been such a star, surely he’d made money. Why had he chosen to live in such a dump? Was it his weirdness, or was something else going on?

  They found the staircase at the back and climbed up to the second floor. The sight that met their eyes at the top was such a contrast that both boys blinked. It was a large, open, loftlike space, filled with potted palms, exotic lamps, and Asian artwork. A serene Buddha, carved from dark wood, peered down at an apartment that was comfortable without being cluttered.

  At the center of the room, Dmitri and Luthor sat on cushions, facing each other across a low table. A wooden tray of sushi sat between them. Griffin and Ben watched, transfixed, as Dmitri picked up a piece of tuna sashimi with a pair of carved chopsticks and held it out to the dog. Luthor accepted the offering delicately, without ever touching the sticks with his mouth. Dmitri chose another piece and fed it to himself, equally delicately.

  Ben was blown away. “They eat sushi at dog shows?”