Case of the Poodle Doodle

by Erik Schubach

  I nodded. There was pain, frustration, and a restrained primal rage in his tone, but no deceit. Then he prompted, “That fuckin' poser said I attacked him?”

  “He says you threatened to kill him before throwing him over the railing, saying you were going to claim his art as yours.”

  He exhaled, pushing his anger down, then said through gritted teeth, “If I was going to kill him, he wouldn't be breathing. I don't do threats. The fucking army trained me to be a killer, and they did an exceptional job at that. That's why I'm so fucked up now.”

  I didn't say anything, just sat silently as he gathered his thoughts. “Staff Sergeant Adrian Higgs.”

  Smiling, I turned to him and offered my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Staff Sergeant Adrian Higgs. And thank you for your service.”

  He looked at my hand then me, then gently took my hand. His fingers were heavily calloused, and I could feel the power in them though he was trying to be delicate.

  My mom is the Liberty Ladies Arm Wrestling Champion, and I wasn't having any of it. I gripped his hand firmly, feeling the rough wool fingerless glove in my palm. He gave me a firmer shake, and his hand felt like it was made of wrought iron. I had no doubt this man could do some damage to anyone who crossed him.

  He studied me before he looked at a point on the opposite building wall. “You're an odd one, aren't you, Miss McLeary-May?”

  I nodded and corrected. “Mrs.”

  He said, tongue in cheek, “That's right, your wife. So you're a taco muncher?”

  My eyes widened, and I blinked at him. The man was crudely direct, and I've heard the whole taco euphemism before. He put a stalling hand up and said with humor lacing his words, “I've no problem with it. Don't know many men who would. Not that there's anything wrong with it.”

  I shook my head at him and said with the hints of a smile twitching at my lips, “You're terrible, Adrian.”

  His smirk faded, and he prompted, “Higgs, please. Never took to my first name much, brought nothing but ass whoopings in school.” After a pause, he smirked and added, “For the other kids.”

  Then he said, “So what's next? I assume you already called your missus, and you're just stalling me until the boys in blue arrive?”

  I shook my head and looked at the same point in space he was staring at. “Not so much. I almost did, but I wanted to meet you first. I saw you painting that mural. It was so... angry.” Then I asked what I believed, and he had inferred already. “How did Beckett get ahold of your paintings?”

  “Long story.”

  “I have time. You can tell Calvin and me over a late lunch in that diner down the block. Our treat.”

  His hand reached out to scrub Calvin's ears, then he said, “I don't take handouts.”

  “Not offering one. I figure if anything, I owe you for your doodle kit, all that paint can't be cheap.”

  “Doodle kit? You really are an odd duck, Mrs. Mc...”

  “Finnegan.”

  He inclined his head. “Ok, Finnegan.” Then he looked at his hands, then me, and said, “I expect you'll be calling your wife in any event.” I nodded, and he exhaled long and hard then pushed up from the ground, slipping his bottle into one of the pockets of his camo cargo pants. “Alright, but I'm not a cheap date. I'm ordering chili fries if they have 'em.”

  “Understood, Calvin can afford it, he's loaded.”

  I snickered at the look the man gave me as he towered over me, while I smoothed down my dress. He thought I was a half bubble off of plumb. What? Stop looking at me like that.

  Chapter 9 – Sergeant Higgs

  I had to stare down the woman in the diner who was eyeballing Higgs in disgust. I swear she was two seconds from telling us that vagrants weren't allowed in the diner. But she broke first when I poured on my Finne-glare 2000. She seated us in the far back by the restrooms. I guess she figured 'out of sight, out of mind.'

  I wasn't really hungry yet, as I had lunch in the park not too long ago, but to put him at ease, when he ordered a double cheeseburger with chili cheese fries and a strawberry shake, I did the same. He blinked at me. “Where would a pretty little thing like you put all that food?”

  Grinning I shared, “I walk the equivalent of a marathon every day, a hazard of my trade, so I need a lot of fuel.”

  “Your trade?”

  I fished out a business card from my bag and handed it to him as I shared, “I'm a dog walker.”

  He just blinked at the card then slipped it into one of the many pockets of his pants.

  “You walk dogs? For a living?”

  I sighed. Why did everyone always act like it wasn't a real job that paid more than most of the people who work in offices made? The crook at the corner of his lips had me narrowing my eyes. He was prodding me. I pointed a warning finger at him, and he smiled and sat back in the booth, laying his arms wide across the top of it. Wait, I knew this attitude, it was the same one Kerry had. Must be a military jerk thing.

  I muttered something I heard Ker call an army vet once, “Ground pounder.”

  His laugh was full and rich and laced with the ragged emotional stresses of a hard life.

  He shared, “I don't get you, Finnegan.”

  “Not many people do.” Then I said what Jane tells people, “I'm an acquired taste.”

  He snorted.

  Then I prompted. “You owe me a story.”

  “I suppose I do.”

  He settled in, his cocky attitude bled away as he seemed to contemplate just how much he would share with me. “Not much to tell. I grew up in Hell's Kitchen, and as I was getting out of school, I didn't have many options, either join the gangs or try to make something of myself in the Army.”

  He looked at his hands as he pulled off his fingerless gloves. “It was the right choice, though it fucked me up probably more than if I had gone the other route. Training to kill to protect your brothers at arms while defending what makes our country great is one thing. Actually, pulling that trigger is another.”

  I sat on my hands to stop from fidgeting as I prompted him with my eyes to go on. He scrubbed his face with one of his big hands. “The military really takes care of its people, right up until discharge. But they don't have a great track record of helping veterans re-assimilate into a civilian culture they no longer fit into. Until they crack, that is.”

  He looked up at the lazily spinning fan in the high ceiling, keeping the air circulating in the space. “I didn't know how to not be a soldier... and... and I was pretty fucked up in the head. Always flashing back to battle, or forgetting I was home again every time I heard a loud noise.”

  The man looked ashamed, and I pulled a hand out from under me to reach across the table to place on his arm to give it a little squeeze. This isn't the first time I've heard this story, and even Kerry, who only saw combat from afar in her cockpit, isn't immune from minor bouts of PTSD she handles with her blatant humor. But we've heard the occasional nightmare, and Jessie soothing her back to sleep at night.

  We pretend that everything is fine in the morning. I wonder if that is the best thing to do or not. I just know I want to talk to her about it, but the pleading looks from Jess and Jane make me leave it be. I guess she'll talk about it on her own terms one day. Until then, we have all the love in the world to shower her with.

  Higgs went on. “I started painting, to try to get all the pain out, get the poison out of my being. It was pretty much an obsession and made me feel a bit better about things. First, it was tagging in alleys, then I moved to canvasses. I even got a job. I thought I was doing good and was going to be alright until a co-worker accidentally dropped a pallet beside me. I broke... they say I went ape shit crazy.”

  Then he sighed and said, “I guess I did. Since I wound up in the VA's psych ward.”

  He looked at me and said like it would change how I looked at him, “Six years. They say I'm put back together now. I don't see it, but they know more than me with their fancy deg
rees. I went back to my place to find that of course it was locked up tighter than a drum. All my art, all my pain, probably thrown out as rubbish. It was like some sick metaphor for my life.”

  “I didn't really have any place to go, dad's a drunk, I've an aunt in Oregon. So I stay on the street, with people who understand me. And I started painting my pain again.” He smiled at the waitress when she placed our plates in front of us, but she was determined to not get a tip from me as she just placed the ticket on the table and scurried off.

  It is attitudes like that which make it easy to see why some of our soldiers feel disenfranchised when they return. The majority are able to re-assimilate, but some... some are broken after giving everything to defend our country and those who can't defend themselves. What does it say about us as a people when these broken men and women get left behind?

  He took a huge bite of his hamburger, and closed his eyes and started chewing it slower. It looked like pure bliss on his face. Then he said with a full mouth, “Then I see handbills, advertising some asswaffle prick showing my work as his own. Stealing my pain.”

  He swallowed then took three or four chili and cheese covered fries and stuffed them in his mouth, holding up a finger for me to wait as he drank directly from his fluted milkshake glass instead of using the straw.

  His mustache was covered in pink ice cream as he continued, “So I went back to my place to try to find out what they did with all my canvasses. It looked like nobody had lived upstairs since I had been taken away. I tried the door again, and this time it opened. When I stepped in, my place looked the same as the day I left, but I could see signs that someone had been using it recently.”

  I took a napkin from the dispenser and started to move my hand toward him, but pulled back. It was driving me crazy with the ice cream on his mustache. He squinted at me, and I made a patting motion on my upper lip. He covered his mouth with a hand and pulled it away to see the strawberry dairy product and grinned and winked at me as he took a napkin to wipe his furry lip clean.

  Then he cocked his head at me as I stabbed a fry with a fork and nibbled on it. Then his head turned to Calvin, who was laying down beside my side of the booth, and he murmured, “I guess we all have our own damage.”

  What was that supposed to mean? I'm just... shut up.

  I took a fry between two fingers and lowered it so Cal could snack on it as I made a rolling motion with my hand. The man's mouth quirked into a smile, and he said as he pinched off a chunk of hamburger from his burger to hold down near the floor. Cal belly crawled over and scarfed down his ill-gotten booty.

  He said through another big bite of burger, “I figured the bastard taking credit for my work had stumbled upon my old place and decided to take credit for my paintings. I wasn't having any of that shit, so I took my knife and started slashing the canvasses. That's when the prick popped his head up over the loft. I ran when I saw he had a dog, they can be unpredictable, and I didn't want to hurt anyone.”

  I nodded. I believed every word he said, especially since I had met Beckett myself, and saw the dust-covered canvases. And I've seen this art for years, not to mention seeing Higgs painting a mural with my own eyes. Beckett would have been a young teen when some of the older works in alleyways were painted. And even without any of that, I could feel the pain and emotion when I looked at the art, and it sang of the pain I saw in Higgs' eyes.

  I nodded and then started to cut a piece of burger with a knife and fork. He smirked as he watched. I grumped out as I dropped the utensils and grasped the large burger with both hands to take a big bit, “Fuck you, Higgs.”

  The man tipped his head back and laughed hardily. By all that is good and fluffy in this world, he was a funny man. Then he smirked and said, “You don't have to impress me, Finnegan.”

  I squinched my face at him then sat back and just enjoyed a meal with the man as I asked all about his life. Paying the toll for each question by answering the questions he shot back at me.

  As he was cleaning his plate, I shoved the last half of my burger toward him. Then I slipped out of the booth, telling him, “I've got to go to the ladies room, and when I get back, I'm going to be calling my wife to pick you up.”

  He smirked and prompted, “Detective McJerkFace?”

  I grinned toothily at that. Yes fine, I may have told him that. Then I cocked an eyebrow.

  He inclined his head in thanks, acknowledging what I was doing.

  I said, “Come on, Cal,” and went into the ladies room. I checked myself in the mirror for any rogue ketchup or mustard stains on my dress. I was good. So I washed my hands, smoothed my dress down, then pushed my long loose curls back over my shoulder and marched out to the now empty table and sat.

  I dug out exact change from my bag to place on the meal ticket, then pulled out my cell and dialed. “Hi, love. Yes, I've had an eventful day, and Cal and I are wiped out, we're heading home now.”

  Then I squinted in mock pain as I shared, “I know the name of the man who allegedly attacked Darryl Beckett... yes, Adrian Higgs, how did you... oh his military ID in his bag.”

  I growled out, “Don't 'what did you do now Fin' me! I just. Well, I ran into him after I dropped Floof off. Jane, stop! I'm fine. He's a sweet man... a potty mouth, but a sweet man. He was a Staff Sergeant in the military, a hero like you and Ker.”

  I sighed and listened to her tirade about talking with strangers, especially ones wanted for breaking and entry and assault and battery. I held the phone, so Calvin could hear. He cocked his head at the sound of Jane's voice. Then when she slowed and started asking relevant questions, I shared, “I brought him to a diner and did the right thing by calling you to come pick him up. But he vanished while I was in the ladies room.”

  I sighed heavily at her as I got a word in edgewise. “I believe the attack was staged. And how did you expect me to keep him here while I called you? What? No, you will not send a cruiser to drive me home. Jorge and Kennedy? I like them... wait. No! Cal and I are walking home, it's only a few blocks, and I've been walking this city long before I met your overbearing sexy ass.”

  I looked at the phone, narrowing an eye and replied to her terse, “Fine!” With one of my own. “Fine!

  Then I blushed and whispered, “Love you too.” Then hung up.

  As I stepped past the waitress, I told her, “You could be more respectful to veterans who fought for your freedoms. It isn't his fault that society kicked him to the curb after he gave everything.”

  I didn't bother staying for any response as Calvin, and I raised our chins and marched out into the city I loved, then turned toward home.

  Chapter 10 – Debrief

  When we got home, I flopped onto the couch to decompress after opening the french doors for Calvin to go out to sit to watch all the people bustling about below. It looked like even though I was done with the day, it wasn't done with me. My cell buzzed.

  I didn't recognize the name on the screen so answered, “Hello? This is Finnegan McLeary-May, how may I assist in your dog walking needs today?” It was the owner of the building where I had been arrested for malicious punctuation correction.

  My eyes widened as the man spoke, then I replied, “No... I wasn't the artist. I just got caught when I added an apostrophe to his declaration. What? No... yes... I can probably contact him to see if he would be interested. Yes. No, thank you. Have a wonderful evening.”

  I hung up and looked toward the french doors where Cal had poked his head back in at the sound of my voice. I shared, “The owner of the building doesn't wish for me to pay restitution nor hire someone to clean off the mural. They'd like Higgs to paint a larger mural to cover their entire alley wall and part of the building front.”

  Calvin was impressed, I could tell. I was too. I didn't know if anyone else could see the emotion in the Sergeant's work. Jane didn't really see it, but I did, and now this Mr. LaRue.

  After a time of just zoning out a bit and relaxing, my cell buzzed.
An incoming text. It was time to get up and start dinner for the girls, they'd be home soon. I grinned at the text and responded to Miss Smythe quickly in the affirmative. “Yes, of course, any phone she'd like, on my account. Preferably an iPhone as we prefer FaceTime over Skype. And I understand the need for them to place parental controls and monitoring on it.”

  I hesitated then sent another. “Do they have many older children there? Luce's age or older?” She said she'd look into it. And I just beamed. I didn't know a teen who didn't have a cell, the information available at your fingertips. You could research so many fascinating topics and... don't look at me like that. Of course I know they spend most of their time on social media... I was a teen once. Fine whatever, I knew about social media, didn't have much use for it until I was a business owner. So shut up and listen.

  As I made lasagna and started to make buttery dinner rolls, The response was disheartening. There were two girls eight and nine, too young to have phones of their own, but one girl, Bri, who was seventeen, and about to age out of the system.

  I closed my eyes then reopened them and took a deep breath, texting back, “Have them purchase Bri a phone too if she doesn't have one. No young woman should be without one. A gift.”

  I imagined what my life would have been like without my parents, or my brother. And to be in a system, an orphanage your entire life until adulthood without knowing what it was like to have a family. And the children you grow up with, moving on to other families while you watch another year go by as new faces arrive and old ones leave, you being the only constant.

  Wiping a tear from my cheek, I started cleaning as the meal cooked. Jess was the first home. She was whistling cheerily as she came in, spinning her car keys on her finger. She winked at me as she crouched to scrub Calvin's ears when he flowed gracefully up to her. “Having a place to park here is a dream, Fin.”

  She placed her keys on the entry table beside the mail sorter I had neatly labeled 'mail', thank you very much. She saw my distress as I stared at the keys. She offered, “We can set up a little key hook by the coat pegs.” Then she teased, “You know how much you like to label things.”