The Black Marble

by Joseph Wambaugh

  “Get hold a yourself. You’ve been to plenty a dog shows.”

  “As a spectator!”

  “Look, show the Dandie,” Philo said, reeling from the effects of marijuana and bourbon. “Show the dog or fuck the dog, I don’t care what you do with the dog, but leave me alone.”

  “Mr. Skinner, I’m quitting tomorrow morning. I’m not working for you anymore.”

  “That’s funny. Oh, God, that’s funny,” Philo croaked, then broke into a wheezy laughing fit that ended in an ounce of black phlegm being gagged into his handkerchief while Pattie Mae blanched. “Listen,” he gasped, still chuckling wheezily. “I won’t be working for me, come tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Go show the goddamn Dandie. It’s good experience for you.”

  Mrs. Dexter Berryberry had been enjoying the dog show enormously up until that time. And here was the moment she’d been waiting for. She had bought tickets for seven members of her bridge club and they were all chatting excitedly in the grandstand waiting to see the Berryberry Dandie Dinmont do his stuff. Then Mrs. Berryberry began looking concerned. Where the hell was Philo Skinner? She counted one, two, eight Dandies. And the fourth one looked like her Pretty Pennie, but who the hell was that kid with the tits leading her Pretty Pennie?

  Mrs. Dexter Berryberry wasn’t there when her bridge club began the polite applause for Pretty Pennie of Hancock Park. She was hotfooting it down the stairs to the grooming area of Philo Skinner, searching the crowd for that slinky, teased-and-dyed, mangy bastard. She looked everywhere but in the small cluster of sports fans huddled around the television set.

  Meanwhile Pattie Mae was knocking them dead in ring number eight. Perhaps not all of them, but certainly the sixty-year-old judge, Landon McWhorter, whose eyes started popping the moment the frazzled girl came bouncing into the ring. He stopped all the handlers once around, except for poor Pattie Mae, jogging along, turning her ankles on those seven-inch clogs. Old Landon grinned more with each bounce and hop, and made the girl do an L away from him, and if that wasn’t enough, a T. He made her trot back and forth so much her wraparound skirt was unwrapping.

  Unlike most judges he didn’t stand his ground as she moved away, but followed along, making furious notes on his clipboard. His notes said: “Brisket flat and muscular. Hock shapely and well defined. Stifle magnificent!” And the dog wasn’t bad either.

  Mrs. Dexter Berryberry never saw Philo Skinner squatting on the floor in front of that television set smoking his sixty-eighth cigarette. When she returned to the grandstand, her bridge club stood and applauded her win. She accepted it graciously, thinking she must remember to give Philo a bonus for finding a little pigeon with tits big enough to bring old Landon McWhorter back to life.

  At 1:20 p.m., early in the first quarter of Super Bowl XI, Philo Skinner, sobering up slightly, decided he’d had enough. He began rooting for the Minnesota Vikings! He only wanted to cover his gambling debts. He was a dog handler and a good one. His life wasn’t so bad considering the alternatives. He swore he’d never bet on another horse or another football game if the Vikings could pull it off. So long, Puerto Vallarta! With his luck he’d die of Aztec Revenge anyway, first time he had a Bibb lettuce salad. Or he’d catch clap in some Mexican whorehouse and a swarm of vermin would penetrate his blood and go rushing madly to his brain and … Come on, you Vikings!

  But at 1:26 p.m. Earl Main kicked a field goal for the Oakland Raiders.

  “Mr. Skinner, we won!” Pattie Mae screamed, throwing her arms around his neck. For the firs time, she kissed his cheek. “We won, Mr. Skinner! The Dandie won!”

  “That’s great, kid, that’s really swell,” Philo said. “How about going back and getting the bullterrierready? He’s next.”

  “Sure, Mr. Skinner. I’m so exited. We might win best of breed! My very first show!”

  “Listen, honey, maybe you’d like to show the bull too.”

  “Would I? Would I?”

  And she was off, running toward the grooming table, deciding to add just another touch of cornstarch.

  At 1:42 p.m. the Oakland Riders scored on a Kenny Stabler pass.

  “My God,” said Philo Skiinner. The pile of butts at his feet had grown.

  “Janitor, ring ten. Janitor, ring fifteen. Janitor …”

  It was all turning to shit. He would be a criminal. As sure as there’s shit in those shovels. It was Philo Skinner’s destiny. He had no control over it. He had no choice in the matter. Fate had brought him here. And Philo Skinner found it as easy to accept a deterministic philosophy as had thousands of criminals More him. Dame Chance was guiding his destiny. His fate lay in the lands of that bearded, left-handed quarterback.

  Eight minutes later, Oakland made it 17–0 and Philo Skinner nodded grimly. There was no point waiting any longer. Destiny had made the choice.

  “Janitor, ring fifteen. Janitor, ring eight. Janitor …”

  Pattie Mae didn’t do so well with the Staffordshire bull terrier. This judge, a forty-six-year-old fireplug with tits three times bigger than Pattie Mae’s, wasn’t impressed.

  “We didn’t have a fair chance,” Pattie Mae sobbed to a white-lipped Philo Skinner, who sat in his director’s chair, drinking coffee, taking hold, preparing himself for the ordeal to come.

  “Yeah, well that’s the break. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I tried so hard, but she wouldn’t even look at us, Mr. Skinner.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Pattie Mae,” Philo Skinner said.

  “The schnauzers will be going any minute in number seven, Mr. Skinner.”

  “Schnauzers?”

  “Yes, schnauzers.” The girl looked quizzically at Philo as she wiped her eyes with a tissue. Then she pointed at Tutu in the exercise pen.

  “Yeah, well they’re running late. Get her ready. I’ll tell you about mini-schnauzers. Cheer up a little, okay.”

  “Sure,” she sniffed.

  Now he was once again Philo Skinner, Terrier King. He was still woozy from the drug and the whiskey, but he was taking hold. There was no turning back now. That fucking Kenny Stabler couldn’t miss with those passes. Was that Philo Skinner’s fault? Was it his fault that Jim Marshall and Alan Page couldn’t penetrate the Oakland offense and nail that whiskered son of a bitch? Jesus Christ, the Vikings were too old. Too old! The whole fucking world was too old! Is that Philo Skinner’s fault?

  “Okay, Pattie Mae, I’m going to give you a little bit on schnauzers while we get this little bitch ready.”

  “Great, Mr. Skinner,” she sniffled, starting to recover from the loss. “By the way, where did she come from?”

  “Whaddaya mean?” he said quickly.

  “I mean, who owns her? How did we get her today? She’s not one a our dogs is she? What’s her name? Is she listed in the show catalogue?”

  “Goddamn, Pattie Mae, you ask a lot a questions,” said Philo, lighting a cigarette with steadying hands. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she? A little tiger. Schnauzers should never be cute. Growly and feisty, that’s the sign of a winner. Know why?”

  “Why, Mr. Skinner?”

  “They were rat dogs in the old days. Tough little bastards. They could get chewed up by a whole goddamn platoon a rats and still come out on top. You ever wonder how we can strip them down like we do? Pluck them clean as a chicken and they don’t feel a thing? The nerve endings aren’t near the surface a the skin. That’s why you can strip out these double-coated dogs. Strip the wiry jacket and the downy cotton. Try that with a poodle or Afghan. Just try it.”

  Philo’s hands moved as gracefully as a blackjack dealer’s. Touching, scissoring, trimming, combing. Pattie Mae almost forgot that he hadn’t answered a single one of her questions.

  “Sometimes you get a garbage coat on these schnauzers,” Philo said, as he saw an almost microscopic lash protruding from the triangular shade of the schnauzer’s shaggy eyebrows. “Sometimes they just grow a crummy jacket and all you can do is strip em out and w
ait till next time.”

  Tutu didn’t move a muscle as Philo’s scissors passed across her beautiful brown eyes. Tutu trusted Philo implicitly.

  “Look at that eyeshade, Pattie Mae,” Philo said, genuinely admiring the head of the little schnauzer. “You could almost shine that silver, put it in your little hope chest. You got a little hope chest, Pattie Mae?”

  “What’s a hope chest, Mr. Skinner?”

  Jesus Christ. They’re all so young. Young!

  “Those goddamn Kerry blues give schnauzers lots a trouble in shows,” Philo said, eyes darting toward the ring where he would not be showing this schnauzer. “People really like Kerry blues for some reason, but me, gimme a schnauzer any day. These are little working dogs, is what they are. Not some frigging pet. They reach. You got to learn how to use that lead, make these little tigers reach. Like a little Clydesdale horse. Look at the gorgeous furnishings on this bitch!”

  “She’s the best-looking schnauzer I ever seen, Mr. Skinner.”

  Second best around here, Philo thought. Second best. You’ll see the first best later. About the time Fran Tarkenton is sitting on his ass in the locker room wondering what the hell happened. You’ll see and even touch the first best and you won’t even know it! Philo was feeling so much better he even took a peek down Pattie Mae’s blouse when she leaned over the back of the schnauzer to comb her leg furnishings.

  “She has such beautiful legs. As straight as posts,” the girl said, admiring the sturdy silver furnishings, trimmed so that the little black toenails barely showed. “I like the schnauzer better too. More …”

  “More balls,” Philo Skinner said. “You like your dogs with balls and your men with balls. No sissies for you, right, Pattie Mae? Real guys. Hey, Pattie Mae?”

  “Sure, Mr. Skinner,” the girl sighed, giving Philo the once-over. Six feet three, 145 pounds fully clothed. Hair like an ungroomed otter hound, dyed like a Kerry blue, chest like a cocker spaniel, legs like a whippet, droopy eyes like a beagle. At this moment smelling like one of those barrels of crap the honey dippers are scooping up in the show rings. A real guy, Mr. Skinner. Oh, gross!

  “Janitor, ring number one. Janitor, ring number fourteen. Janitor …” The voice was chanting it now. “Janitor, ring number nine.” It may as well have been in Latin. “Janitor, ring number twelve.” Hail boxer, full of shit. Old age and shit! Philo wanted to cry. A church full of shit clear to the dome! A canine cathedral full of dog shit!

  “Mr. Skinner, where did you say this schnauzer came from? What’s her name? Who owns …?”

  “Here,” Philo said, suddenly handing the scissors to the girl. “There’s one hair protruding one-sixteenth of an inch from one of the furnishings. See if you can find it and trim it off. Old eagle-eye Skinner spotted it.”

  And when she took the scissors he let his hand fall against her left breast, the back of his bony knuckles sliding over the large nipple.

  Eagle eye, my ass, she thought. Beagle eye, you mean. Beagle-eyed, smelly old fart. Ugh!

  He had to come up with a story. She had already asked enough to get suspicious. “This little bitch, she, uh, well, I have this client. Oil. Scads of oil. Moved to Tulsa to be closer to her goddamn derricks. I ever tell you about how a savvy handler can give a rich client a champion, without too much trouble?”

  “No,” she said, looking over every inch of the schnauzer’s furnishings for the elusive little hair he had referred to. Where was the dumb thing?

  “Well, see, Pattie Mae, I can take a dog and pick some shows in Iowa or Oklahoma. Like once I took a Lakeland terrier on the Oregon circuit for a client. We entered five shows in five days and I earned all fifteen points and brought home a champion to mama. In a Lear Jet! Mama’s own little Lear Jet. She slipped me a thousand bucks from her own little bank account, because daddy was a stingy old bastard. She also tried to slip me something else, I might add.” With that, Philo gave Pattie Mae another pat on the fanny.

  No pants, Philo thought, sighing.

  Sickie! Pattie Mae thought, sighing.

  “Anyway, Pattie Mae,” Philo continued, “this broad that moved to Oklahoma, she called me and asked could I show her schnauzer. She’s been keeping it with a sister-in-law in Malibu or somewhere. So I said okay, for an old client, and went out to Malibu, picked it up and here she is.”

  Then Philo Skinner stopped, lit a cigarette and stepped back from the grooming table. He held up Tutu’s chin and said, “You know what? I still don’t think she’s ready. Her coat just isn’t sharp enough. I don’t wanna show this little bitch today.”

  “Mr. Skinner! I’m no expert, but …”

  “Remember that!” Philo snapped.

  “Yes, but I think this is the finest miniature schnauzer I ever seen! Why her coat looks prime to me, Mr. Skinner.”

  “To you, Pattie Mae, to you. Did you find that protruding hair in the furnishings?”

  “Not yet,” she said, bending lower, picking up the front paw of the patient Tutu, who panted and looked at Philo. Adoringly.

  “Not yet” Philo scoffed. “And you think you know when a schnauzer is ready? Gimme those scissors.”

  And with that, Philo snatched the scissors from the girl’s hand and clipped a nonexistent hair from the left front furnishing and said, “That’s why you’re here at Skinner Kennels. To learn. To leam from the Terrier King of the West Coast. This schnauzer is not ready and I’m looking out for the best interest of my client by deciding not to show her. Christ, there’s a thousand other dog shows this little bitch can enter and win. When she’s ready.”

  “You know best, Mr. Skinner.”

  “Believe it, baby,” Philo said. Then he reached over and chucked the girl under the chin, once again letting his hand drop and slide across her nipple. “Hey, you did okay today. Who knows? You might win the terrier group with the Kerry.”

  The fate of the Minnesota Vikings was sealed at about the same moment the miniature schnauzers trotted into the ring that afternoon. Pattie Mae was standing by the ring next to Philo Skinner, who was watching every movement of a bitch called Victoria Regina of Pasadena.

  “Look at her!” Philo said to Pattie Mae, whose feet were killing her and who was ready to call it a day.

  “Beautiful!” he said. “No crossover in those feet. Tail not set too low. Great neck. Bet she stands thirteen and one half inches right on the nose. See, our schnauzer could never have beat that bitch. That is a champion.”

  “I guess so,” the girl said, avoiding Philo’s tobacco breath.

  “I’ve never seen a finer mini-schnauzer,” Philo mused. “Look how those first two schnauzers paddle. Schnauzers shouldn’t paddle like toy poodles, for chrissake.”

  Then, pandemonium. Someone called the stick. Dog showing is a ladies and gentlemen’s sport.

  “Son of a bitch! The stick!”

  “That rotten bastard!”

  “Prick bastard!”

  “Kick his rotten ass, George. Challenge that dirty scum-sucking rotten little asshole.”

  “The stick!”

  “What happened, Mr. Skinner?” Pattie Mae cried.

  At one grooming station they were growling, snarling, lunging toward the ring. The people, that is. The dogs were quietly sitting, or trying to sleep through all the hullabaloo, nuzzling their balls, licking their twats, biting at imaginary itches brought about not by fleas but by the nervousness of the human beings which affected the dogs like poison ivy.

  A siren could be heard faintly on Santa Barbara Avenue. The cops were chasing a drunk driver from Minnesota in a Hertz Rent-A-Car. He was careening around the Los Angeles Coliseum convinced that his Vikings were inside kicking the shit out of those pussies from Oakland. He was twelve miles and eighteen points away from the right stadium and the right score. The sirens set the dogs to howling, though Pattie Mae thought the dogs had joined the howling humans because they’d called the stick. Everyone took up the chant.

  “He called the stick! The prick!”

&nb
sp; Even Pattie Mae started yelling, “He called the stick, Mr. Skinner!” She was caught up in mob frenzy. “The dirty prick called the stick!”

  “Pattie Mae, do you know what the stick is?” Philo asked.

  “No.”

  “Calm down for chrissake and I’ll tell you.”

  But it was hard to talk over all the noise.

  The humans snarled and the sirens wailed, and some of the dogs in the ring began to howl and move their bowels.

  “Janitor, ring number one. Janitor, ring number four. Are there any more janitors on lunch break? All janitors to the arena floor!”

  “What’s the stick, Mr. Skinner?” she asked when the animals and people stopped howling.

  “See that third guy in the ring? The one with the phony dyed red hair?”

  Yeah, phony hair, Pattie Mae thought.

  “That guy with the phony dyed hair, he’s an anesthesiologist from Laguna Beach. A one hundred percent, never deviating, pure-blooded, American Kennel Club registered, prick. He called the stick on that little schnauzer that Billie Jefferson’s showing. See the little bitch? Third from the judge’s right? Well, she might be a mite under twelve inches at the withers, and that prick, he can spot a schnauzer under twelve inches better than anybody I ever saw. He’s called for the stick more than anyone. They used to walk them under a wicket, like a croquet wicket. Poor Billie. That little bitch isn’t going to measure twelve inches. She’ll be disqualified and Billie knows it. Poor bastard. Been a handler even longer than me. Hustling to make ends meet and some rich doctor from Laguna calls the stick on him. Poor bastard. Bet Billy’d like to put that fucking doctor under the wicket, play croquet on his goddamn phony dyed head. Poor old Billy. Hard to make a living running a kennel, Pattie Mae.”

  “But if you love dogs, Mr. Skinner …”

  “Love dogs,” Philo said, and looked longingly toward ring number seven. His last dog show. “Yeah, I always loved them, true enough. Long as I can remember. When I was a scrawny hungry kid with not enough for me to eat, I always shared with some goddamn dog. Now I’m a scrawny hungry man and … aw, what the hell.”

  And for the first time, Pattie Mae looked at the old bastard with something other than apprehension or loathing. “You’re not so scrawny, Mr. Skinner,” the simple girl said. “You just smoke too much. And I’d lay off the Colombia Gold I was you, you’re liable to lose some clients.”