Her shoe flies by my head. That was close.
I pick up speed and run in a zig-zag. Just in time, too. Another shoe whizzes by my head. Now that she’s out of ammo, I turn around and run backwards. “I’m holding you responsible for the bird, Veronica. Just so you know that!” I dash off the track and out the nearest exit.
Thirty-Five
The Friedman’s are due back today so I spent the entire afternoon bird shopping. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a look-alike parrot? To match just the right amount of blue and green and purple feathers? It costs me five hundred bucks to get this new bird. I put a leash on his neck and I don’t even say a word when he sits on my passenger headrest and poops all over the seat.
The sales lady told me he speaks, but I can’t get him to say a darn thing. “Jews and Gays,” I say in his face, “Repeat after me: Jews and Gays.”
The new Lebowitz stares at me with his dull bird eyes and doesn’t say a thing. Maybe he's a Forrest Gump bird and won't ever talk.
The new Lebowitz rides on my shoulder all the way up in the elevator to the Friedman’s apartment. I keep his leash wrapped around my wrist in case he gets the urge to fly away. I push the doorbell and wait.
Mrs. Friedman opens the door with a big smile on her face. “Jamie! It’s so good to see you!”
“Good to see you, too,” I say. I take a deep breath and spill the lines I’ve been rehearsing. “Mrs. Friedman, you’re home already? I thought I’d take Lebowitz for a walk before you arrived. I didn’t realize you’d already be here.” All that sounded much better in my head than it did coming out of my mouth.
“Oh, you’re such a prankster,” Mrs. Friedman says, closing the door behind me. “I want to thank you for taking such good care of Lebowitz.”
Then I see him. Lebowitz. He’s inside his cage. How the hell did he get in there? I look at my shoulder. Yep, the new Lebowitz is still there. “So he’s okay?” I walk up to the birdcage and peer in at him.
Mrs. Friedman is all smiles as she says, “He’s never been healthier. Thanks to you.”
“Uh huh.” Lebowitz must have flown back in the window and let himself back into his birdcage. That’s all I can figure. And right now he looks like he’s laughing at me.
Mrs. Friedman looks at the bird on my shoulder. “Who’s this little fellow?”
“Oh. I look at the bird and do some fast thinking. “This is my bird. I liked Lebowitz so much that I got my own bird.”
“He’s beautiful. What’s his name?”
“Umm…” I say the first name that pops in my head, “Fruit Loops.”
“Why, what an interesting name.”
Mrs. Friedman’s husband, the once-missing Leo, appears from the kitchen with a sandwich in his hands. “Want a sandwich?”
I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
“It’s good. Roast beef and butter,” he says.
“Butter?” I say.
Mrs. Friedman chuckles. “He puts butter on everything now. He thinks it makes him look British.”
“Hey, I like butter. So sue me,” Leo says. He grabs a newspaper, sits in a chair, and buries himself in its pages.
Mrs. Friedman sits on the sofa and pats the cushion next to her. I sit down beside her. She says, “So now tell me everything that’s happened while I was gone. I feel like I’ve missed so much. How are the neighbors?”
“Some bad things have happened lately, some rather disturbing things.”
“Really? In the boring ol’ Franklin Arms. Who knew? See, Leo, we go away and everything gets interesting.” She raises her voice a couple of decibels. “Don’t you think, Leo?” He grunts behind his paper and Mrs. Friedman smiles.
I fill Mrs. Friedman in on all the dognappings. She hangs on to my every word like it’s a soap opera. Which in a way, I suppose it is.
“So what are you doing about this dognapping spree?” Mrs. Friedman asks.
“Well, It’s my hunch that Matty was stolen so he wouldn’t win the Lakeland Dog Show,” I say.
“But what about the other three dogs? They aren’t in the dog show,” she says.
I nod. “That’s true. But maybe, just maybe, they were stolen to throw us off the scent. They’re decoy dognappings.”
“Ah, I see,” Mrs. Friedman says.
“Travis and I are going undercover. We have a dog we’re entering in the show. That way we can rub elbows with the perp and find out where they’re stowing the dogs." I lower my voice to a whisper and add, "If they're still alive."
“You’re going to infiltrate the seedy world of dog shows,” Mrs. Friedman says. “How exciting. Isn’t that exciting, Leo?”
Leo grunts.
“Well, I don’t know that it’s seedy,” I say. “It’s my understanding that it’s actually a really nice dog show. As far as dog shows go.”
“What’s your cover?” Mrs. Friedman asks almost breathlessly. It appears her trip across the pond has given her a taste for adventure.
“I’m going to be the groomer and my friend Travis is going to the show the dog,” I say.
Leo grunts and folds up his newspaper. “Who’s going to be your sponsor?”
“What?” I blurt, and then I remember that each dog in the competition is owned by some rich person who funds the endeavor. I totally overlooked that part.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Friedman says. “Who’s your sponsor?”
“I haven’t got that far yet. I have several to choose from,” I lie. I don’t want them thinking that I haven’t gotten all the wrinkles ironed out.
“What about us?” Leo says. “We’re rich. I even have a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. I bought it when I was on holiday in England.”
I’m not entirely sure what the tweed jacket has to do with anything, but I decide to play along. “Do you have a pipe?”
“I can get one,” Leo says.
“And I know I could get something stodgy with sensible shoes from my cousin Myrtle. She never married and has lived with her woman friend for forty years. I’m sure she’d loan me a pants suit or two.”
I give Mr. and Mrs. Friedman the once over, trying to see them with new eyes. Their age and demeanor could pull it off. They could look like avid dog owners—rich people with not a lot to do who discover yet another way to improve their status and get some press. I can see it in the paper: Ivan, the Chinese Crested, owned by Mr. and Mrs. Friedman took the blue ribbon in their group in the annual Lakeland Dog show this weekend. Yes, it could work. “Let’s do it,” I say. “I’ll count on you both to be my sponsor.”
“Oh Goody,” Mrs. Friedman says. She takes me by the arm and pulls me toward the door. Once we’re out of earshot of Leo, she whispers, “Thank you for including us, Jamie. Leo needs something to do with his time or he’s going to go missing again.”
“No problem,” I say. “Hey, you don’t happen to want another parrot? You know, like a bird buddy for Lebowitz?"
“No, thank you,” she says. “Fruit Loops looks great on your shoulder.”
I sigh on my way to the elevator. I can’t believe I’m the owner of a bird. Oh well, I already have a cat and a dog. What’s one more?
Thirty-Six
I unlock the door to my loft. As soon as I step inside, I unclip Fruit Loops from his leash and he flaps his wings and takes off. He flies around the kitchen, the living room, down the hallway, back to the living room and finally lights on a curtain rod. I think he likes the high ceilings and all the space to stretch his wings. “Don’t get too attached to being free range,” I warn him, “I’ll be buying a cage for your feathered butt soon.”
I walk into the kitchen where Travis sits eating something out of a bowl that looks beige and healthy.
“Whassup, Trav?” I say.
“Oh, my God! Is that a Hermes scarf?” he exclaims in a falsetto gay-boy voice. He whips the scarf off my neck, nearly hanging me in the process. He holds it up so it sparkles in the light. He squints at the tag and his eyes widen. “It’s a real Contre Courant.”<
br />
“So I’ve been told.”
He rubs the scarf against his cheek and closes his eyes in what could only be described as rapture. “I love the texture.” He opens his eyes and gazes at the scarf. “And this is a new pattern. I’ve never seen one with white spots on gray background,” he says.
“Um… those spots aren’t part of the pattern.” I get a Yoo-Hoo out of the fridge.
“What do you mean?”
I decide not to tell him that those spots he’s admiring are really dried parrot poop. It might break his heart.
“Nothing. Don’t listen to me, I don’t know a thing about fashion.”
“Where did you buy it?”
I go into the living room and Travis trails after me. “I didn’t. It’s a gift from Veronica.” I throw my coat over the back of a chair and plop down on the sofa. Travis sits beside me. He’s been so absorbed in the scarf he hasn’t noticed Fruit Loops looking down on us from the top of the curtains.
“Veronica? What’s up with that?” Travis says, raising an eyebrow. “You’re back together?”
I chug half the Yoo-Hoo before answering. “Nope, our relationship is still in its death throes. She just refuses to acknowledge it. I think she’s hanging on just to prove who’s in control.”
“Most lesbian couples in a relationship stop having sex. But you get out of the relationship and continue to have sex. Makes no sense. You lesbians are weird,” he says, wrapping the scarf about his own neck.
“Yep. Not to mention annoying.”
“You know why she gave you this scarf?”
“Because she found it at a garage sale?”
“No.”
“On ebay?”
“No.”
“She got it from her great aunt and is re-gifting it to me?”
“Maybe. But that’s not what I meant,” he says.
“Because she found out that I have a thing for Gloria?”
“Bingo!”
“That’s what I figured,” I say. “Maybe if I actually sleep with Gloria, Veronica will give me a flatscreen TV or something.”
“Hold out for a new washer and dryer set,” Travis says with a giggle.
“Speaking of annoying… Where’s Ivan?”
“He was sitting on the bathroom vanity staring into the mirror.”
“How’d he get up there?”
“I believe he went from floor to toilet to vanity. It appears he’s a very adept hopper,” Travis says.
“But what is he doing up there?”
“My best guess is that he’s is admiring himself in the mirror. He’s evidently rather pleased with Mr. French’s hairdressing skills.”
“Hmm…that might indicate that Ivan has a vested interest in the dog competition.”
“It’ll add an authentic air to what we’re doing.” He flips the scarf over his shoulder. “Speaking of which when do we start?”
“Tomorrow is the meet and greet.”
At that moment, Ivan comes out of the bathroom, leaps up on the couch, and inserts himself between us.
“I’m getting the vibe that he’s jealous of our relationship,” Travis says. He scratches Ivan behind the ears until Ivan’s hind leg begins to do that doggie shake thing. “Did you know that dogs don’t like to be patted on the top of their heads?”
“News to me.” Only then do I notice the stack of dog books on the coffee table. I read off the titles, “Marley and Me. Old Yeller. Where the Red Fern Grows. Clifford the Big Red Dog. Inside a Dog. Running with Wolves.” I look at Travis. “What’s with the dog books?”
“I’ve been reading to Ivan,” he says. “He likes it.”
I state the obvious. “You need a boyfriend.”
Travis sighs. “From your lips to God’s ears. Speaking of ears, dogs love to be scratched behind their ears. Or stroked on their chest and there’s always the good old standby—the belly rub. When you do all three at once, it’s referred to as ‘the works’ and it’s a very effective form of positive reinforcement. Watch this.” Travis demonstrated “the works” and Ivan melted in his hands. “I’m going to do this during the Johnnie break in the competition. It will ease his nerves and lower his anxiety level.”
“Travis, you are such an ass sometimes.”
“You just called me an ass?”
“No. I said you were an asset sometimes. And as payment for your services I hereby award you the Hermes scarf.”
“Really?” His eyes widened in disbelief. “I can keep it?”
“Sure.”
“But why?”
“It’s not me. It makes the rest of my wardrobe look shabby.”
“Thank you thank you thank you,” Travis says, hopping into my lap and planting a wet kiss on my cheek. Ivan stands on his hind legs and licks the other cheek.
“Get off my lap and stop kissing me!” I say, wiping both sides of my face.
At that moment, Fruit Loops decides to squawk and dive bomb us. He narrowly misses Travis’s up-do as he flies through the room and down the hallway. I don’t know which is louder, Travis’s scream or Fruit Loops screeching, “Get off my lap! Stop kissing me!”
Ivan jumps off the couch and chases after the bird, yipping with each step.
Travis remains frozen in my lap. He doesn’t blink for the next seven seconds. Then his head slowly swivels to me and he asks, “What the hell was that?”
“Oh. Did I forget to mention we have a new pet?”
Thirty-Seven
The Lakeland Dog show is held in the downtown Civic Center. The only other times I’ve been here was to see the Harlem Globetrotters and the Shriner’s Circus when I was a little kid. The place looks cavernous when it’s empty. And it still smells like popcorn and elephant poop.
Travis, Ivan and I walk past the rows of bleachers and up to the registration table. The last person I expect to see sitting there is Zelda.
“Hey, Jamie,” she says with a smirk. “I never thought I’d see you in this building again. Not after what happened at prom.”
Did I forget to mention our high school prom was held in the convention center? I shrug at Zelda and say, “I don’t even remember prom it was so long ago.”
“Really?” she says. “Let me give you a hint about what happened. You. Peach Schnapps. A cheerleader—
I interrupt her, “So, Zelda. What’re you doing here at the Lakeland Dog Show?”
“I’m the color commentator,” she says in a hoity toity tone.
“Really? They couldn’t find anyone else of color to commentate?”
“That’s not what color commentator means,” she says. "By the way, any news on the Tiffany front?"
I don’t answer—not after that prom poke. “Good to see you, Buh bye,” I say over my shoulder and I lead Travis and Ivan over to a lady holding a clipboard. Her name tag identifies her as Suzanne. She has on so much perfume she smells like Bath and Body Works at the mall.
I sneeze.
She wrinkles her nose at me. “Name?”
“Ivan,” I say.
“Last name?”
“Um… the Terrible?”
She looks at me like I’m something she found on the bottom of her shoe. “I meant your name.”
“Oh. Jamie Bravo.”
“Last name?”
“Bravo.”
“Your name is Jamie Bravo Bravo?”
This woman is working my last nerve. Her IQ must match her bra size. Travis pushes me aside and steps in for the rescue. I bide my time, looking around at all the people. I scan every cheek I can see. Surely, a mole can’t hide itself in these lights.
“We’re number seventeen,” Travis says. “Our station is right over there.” He points out a stainless steel table.
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to split up. I’ll take Ivan over to his station and you can work the crowd.”
“By work the crowd you mean…?”
“I mean mingle, Travis. Mingle. See if you can spot the mole man.”
“Gotcha,” he says. He deposits Ivan in my arms and swishes away. God, I wish I had his confidence.
Zelda was right about one thing. This place does remind me of high school. Who knew there was a caste system for dog shows? But here I am feeling like the new girl in school. All the popular kids are throwing me dirty looks and snickering behind their hands that my pants are too short. I can’t find any place to sit at lunch time, even the dweebs don’t want me at their table. So, I do the same thing I did back in high school—I pretend I don’t care.
Maybe I could learn a thing or two from Ivan. He’s the ugliest mutt here, but he doesn’t know it. He sits on the table, licking his butt like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
I don’t have the slightest idea what I’m supposed to be doing, so I talk to Ivan. “You’re the best looking dog here, Ivan. You know, beauty comes from the inside. That little poodle over there is going be a nobody in just a few years time. You watch, she’ll get fat and have five or six babies and droopy teats. You wait and see. By the time your ten year reunion comes around, you’ll be like the nerd kid who invented Apple. You’ll have your choice of the ladies.”
I feel a tap on my shoulder and I turn around to find a man looking down his considerable nose at me. He says, “Um, I hate to bring this up, girlfriend, but that table is taken.”
I give him the up and down. He’s wearing a purple leisure suit. And it’s not because he’s retro hip either. It’s because he’s a horrible dresser. I bet that suit is from Montgomery Ward, back when it was still in business.
“I’m not your girlfriend. I’m supposed to have table seventeen and this is table seventeen,” I say in my snottiest voice.
“Hmmph, we’ll just see about that,” Mr. Purple Leisure Suit says.
“Leave the poor woman alone,” a woman at the next table says. She has a perm just like the poodle she’s grooming. She’s short enough that she has to stand on a stool to reach the table. She looks at me and says, “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s just mad because his dog never wins Best in Show.”
“Butt out, Mimi,” Mr. Leisure Suit says. “I want this table. It’s my lucky number.”
Worst In Show: A Jamie Bravo Mystery Page 16