Hound Dog Blues

by Virginia Brown

  A pile of glittering stones lay heaped in the middle of his coffee table, gleaming in the light through the open door. Necklaces and bracelets—diamonds, sapphires and emeralds, all winked in the shaft of sunlight that warmed a black velvet cloth on which they lay. It took a moment for her sluggish brain to absorb the implications, and by then Bruno Jett obviously came to the conclusion that she’d seen more than he liked.

  His hand closed on her wrist and he yanked her close, the screen slamming against her. He towered over her, a wall of muscled intimidation that left her reeling and scrabbling for a way to get out of what could be more trouble than she’d anticipated.

  “What do you really want?” he demanded harshly, his eyes narrowed and spearing her with accusation. “You didn’t come here looking for a damn dog.”

  Yunh huh, she wanted to say, yet though the spirit was willing, nothing emerged from her mouth but a whoosh of air. And worse, as if drawn by a magnet, her eyes kept straying to the coffee table and pile of glittering jewels, despite her efforts to pretend they didn’t exist.

  He still held her wrist trapped in one hand, and he gave her a little shake. “Well? What’s up with you?”

  The shake dislodged the strange paralysis of her tongue, and she said, “There’s nothing up with me, but I don’t think you can say the same thing.”

  “Yeah? How d’ya figure that?”

  Pulling free, she rubbed at her wrist, feeling a little better when he crossed his arms over his chest and abandoned brute force. Momentarily distracted by the smooth flex of tanned muscle on his bare chest, her eyes crossed and her lungs emptied of air. Wait. He’d asked her something, and seconds ticked past while she tried to marshal her thoughts into a semblance of coherence. Oh yes. He wanted to know why she thought he was up to something.

  Taking a deep breath, she said, “Well, that pile of stuff on your table, for a start.”

  For a minute he just stared at her with narrowed eyes and his mouth thinned into a tight line. Tension vibrated in the air, and she had the uneasy thought that she’d made a grave error in judgment. Oh damn. Was that the butt of a gun sticking up from the back of his Levi’s? Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut and pretended not to see anything?

  Then Jett relaxed a little, apparently deciding she was harmless. “Yeah, well just so you don’t get any wrong ideas, it’s costume stuff. Cheap knockoffs.”

  She glanced again at the coffee table. In the dim light, the jewelry certainly looked real, but she wasn’t exactly an expert. That didn’t explain the gun, however. Was he licensed to carry concealed? Was it considered concealed if he was in his own house? Did she really want to know?

  “Okay,” she said, ready to be agreeable at all costs, “I didn’t know you’re a salesman.”

  “So now you do.” He reached behind her to push the screen door wide. “I also like my privacy. Do us both a favor and remember that. And don’t come snooping around here anymore.”

  Common sense prompted her to accept his invitation to depart and she did so, but with a parting shot once she was safely in the front yard again, “If you’ve done anything with King, you’ll be sorry.”

  His reply was a derisive snort and slamming of the door. She heard the bolt shoot home with a loud click. Interesting. And if he was a jewelry salesman, she was Nancy Grace.

  At any rate, she’d eliminated him as a suspect in dognapping. He definitely wasn’t the kind of man to send hokey ransom notes. Now she had to call Bobby in case Mrs. Trumble had already contacted the police to file a complaint. As a detective in the West precinct, Bobby might be able to head off any major problems. Unfortunately, he could also be cranky at times, and a challenge to motivate. But first—she had to deal with her parents.

  “So what are we going to do now?” Yogi asked, pausing in his relentless pacing to fix her with a tragic gaze when she told them their neighbor didn’t have King.

  “We aren’t going to do anything, Yogi. I’ll see what Bobby suggests, okay? Just give me some time. I’ll find King, I swear I will. No one will keep him too long.” Without strangling him, she added silently, but knew better than to even hint at that fate.

  He looked relieved. “Okay. So you’ll go down to Trumble’s house to look for him, too?”

  She hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, I’ll go down there. If she’s got him, I’ll call Bobby. So you stay here and don’t go back down there.”

  “Sure.”

  “And don’t go next door, either,” she added, a little suspicious at his quick capitulation. “Promise me.”

  “I promise, Harley. I won’t go next door.”

  “Next door being Mrs. Sherman’s old house—say it.”

  A little peeved, he repeated it just as she insisted, and she gave a satisfied nod. Now she’d committed herself to one more visit to Mrs. Trumble, but it saved a bushel of trouble.

  When she drove up, a big black Lincoln was parked in the driveway leading to Mrs. Trumble’s one-car garage in the back yard of the house, and Harley sat indecisively for several moments. The old lady had been unpleasant enough alone. With reinforcements, she could get downright nasty. Maybe now wasn’t such a good time. Jeez, what a coward she was, afraid to face a little old lady with a hefty swing.

  Well, maybe a trip to Bobby first to find out if charges had been filed was the best course of action for the moment. It beat the heck out of dodging a broom.

  “You gotta be kidding.”

  Bobby Baroni looked at her like she was nuts. It was a look with which she was familiar, and Harley patiently tapped a finger on the sheet of paper.

  “The person who sent this is serious.”

  Bobby smoothed out the paper she’d brought in to the West precinct on Union Avenue. It was crudely done with letters clipped out of newspapers and magazines, a parody of every bad TV program ever shown. “This is stupid,” he said, the expert opinion of a Memphis detective.

  “Not to Diva and Yogi.”

  “Yeah, well, your family’s never been wrapped too tight.”

  “Is that an official opinion?”

  Bobby gave her another “you gotta be kidding” look and forbore an answer. Just as well. She pretty much knew some people suspected her parents were kooks. And Bobby Baroni was in the unique position to confirm that suspicion. After all, he’d practically lived at her house when they were horny adolescents, despite his strict Catholic parents’ every effort to keep him home.

  “So, Mrs. Trumble hasn’t filed any charges against Yogi?” she asked.

  “Not since the last time. He hasn’t been down there again, has he?”

  Ignoring that, she said, “Look, Bobby, Yogi’s threatening to track down the person who has King. Do you really want to risk the mayhem he could cause if he runs amuck?”

  “Shit.” Bobby looked disgusted. And a little bit worried. “How serious can this be if they aren’t asking for anything?”

  “But they are. Look.” She dragged a finger over the pasted words in the first line:

  BrINg WHaT YOU KnOw We WaNT Or ThE DoG diEs

  “So what the hell do they want?”

  “Damned if I know. Yogi says he doesn’t know either.”

  “Bring it where? Harley, this letter doesn’t say anything. It was probably written by kids, or someone who knows that the dog’s missing and is trying to get something from your parents.”

  “Like what? Jeez, Bobby, what could they have that anyone could possibly want?”

  “Not a damn thing that I can think of, unless they’re growing opium in the back yard, too.” A pointed reference to the fact that he knew about the wacky weed growing beside the tomatoes. “But it’s probably just a way to get rid of the dog. It could be any of your neighbors.”

  “True enough. But what about this?”

  She plucked a wad of black and white dog hair from the envelope. Bobby sneezed. She’d forgotten about his allergies.

  There were things she did remember about Bobby, though. He still looked like the cocky kid
he’d been when she first met him, although he’d grown taller and muscled up and wasn’t the gangly boy he’d been then. But he still had a thick head of black hair with a slight curl to it, and heavy-lashed brown eyes—the gorgeous looks of a movie star and the swagger of a rock star.

  “What about it?” he said between sneezes. “It’s freakin’ dog hair, Harley.”

  “It belongs to King. There’s a lot of it here.”

  “How can you tell one clump of dog hair from another?”

  “I can’t. But Yogi can.”

  “So it’s dog hair. How bad can that be?”

  “Read the last sentence. It has Yogi ready to go on a search and destroy mission.”

  He squinted at the letter again.

  Do iT Or YoU GEt YoUR DOg BAcK A LItTLE At a TImE

  “Still sounds stupid. Just some kids playing a mean trick.”

  Harley sighed. “You’re not going to be much use to me, are you?”

  Bobby managed a watery grin. “Babe, you gotta know better. I can still be useful if you feel the need.”

  Once they’d shared a very close relationship, but that was years ago, a trial-type thing that hadn’t worked for long. They’d both enjoyed each other and moved on without recriminations or regrets when the time came.

  “What about Angel?” she asked, scooping up the dog hair and the letter and sticking it all back into the envelope.

  “She has nothing against my old friends.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. She looks like she could be tough if she wants to be.”

  “Hey, someone in her career has to be.”

  “It’s hardly what I’d call a career, Bobby. She dances stark naked at Platinum Plus.”

  “She’s not completely naked. The law requires that she wear shoes.”

  “Oh yes, what was I thinking? And to answer your original suggestion, no, I don’t think so. We’ve both moved on.”

  “Besides,” Bobby said, obviously still focused on Angel’s choice of career, “she’s not dancing anymore.”

  “No? Is that good?”

  “Yeah. I get private lap dances now.”

  “Swell.”

  “And the couch dances—”

  “Listen Bobby, don’t say anymore. I don’t care for the unsavory images this conversation is conjuring up.”

  He grinned. She suspected a case of arrested development. Maybe he was right and she had started him on a life of sexual perversion. French kissing at fourteen was pretty erotic stuff.

  “So you haven’t heard from Mrs. Trumble yet,” she said. “I thought she’d have called the cops on Yogi again by now.”

  “That’s becoming a weekly thing. As long as he doesn’t violate the restraining order, he—oh damn. Don’t tell me.”

  “Okay, I won’t. It’s probably best neither of us knows the truth. If you haven’t heard from her yet, expect a call soon. I’ll try to head things off, but you know how Yogi is about that dog. I can’t guarantee anything.” She folded the ransom letter around the wad of dog hair and stuffed it back into the envelope. Not looking up, she said, “What can you tell me about some guy named Bruno Jett? He moved into Mrs. Sherman’s house last month.”

  “Is that a real name?”

  “As far as I know.” She looked up then, smiling brightly to hide her motivation. It was always best to be cautious with Bobby. He often forgot old friendships and went all cop on her. “I just need to know if he’s the kind of neighbor that might make trouble.”

  Or the kind who might be involved in fencing stolen jewelry. That made more sense than anything else she’d been able to think of since seeing that pile of jewels on his coffee table.

  “What are you up to, Harley?”

  “Why do you always think—”

  “Hey. This is me, Bobby, you’re talking to. I’ve known you too long not to recognize when you’re trying to pull a scam on me. What do you really want?”

  “Okay.” She leaned forward, voice lowering. “I’ve got a hot tip for you. Know all those home burglaries and jewelry thefts in East Memphis recently? I think Jett’s involved somehow.”

  “You do.” Bobby nodded seriously, and the teasing light in his eyes had vanished. “And why would you think that?”

  “Look, before I say anything, we need to make a deal here. I just paid off Wells Fargo for my motorcycle and that wiped out all my savings. Crime Stoppers is offering a nice cash reward. So, anything you find out, you have to share with me, as long as I gave you the info to follow up on. Deal?”

  “Not in a million years. You tell me what you know, and if possible, I’ll tell you what I don’t mind you knowing.”

  She sat back. “That’s not a deal. That’s extortion.”

  “No, extortion is—”

  “Don’t give me a damn definition, Bobby. This isn’t police cooperation. Never mind. I’ll just keep my information to myself and share it only with Crime Stoppers.”

  “So, this Bruno Jett—you think he’s fencing stolen jewels?” Bobby scribbled something on a yellow pad, ignoring Harley when she protested, then asked, “What did you see or hear to lead you to that conclusion?”

  “He had an emerald as big as a walnut stuck in his belly button when he was dancing naked on the front lawn.”

  Bobby looked up at her. “Cute. Where’s your civic spirit?”

  “Sitting in Wells Fargo’s vault. I need that reward, Bobby. I’m broke. You tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  He smiled. “Ah, I like my version of that game better.”

  “I was fourteen. ‘You show me yours’ had more attraction then. Well?”

  He considered a moment, then nodded. “Within reason. So talk.”

  “He had a wad of jewels big enough to choke a mule lying right in the middle of his coffee table. He tried to tell me it was costume stuff, but it wasn’t.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Costume stuff doesn’t have the same kind of sparkle. I’m sure I’m right on this, Bobby. Check him out. I’m willing to bet he’s got a record.”

  “Loose jewels?” Bobby looked skeptical.

  “No. Necklaces and bracelets—diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds. If the stuff is real, it’s worth a fortune.”

  “And he just let you in to look at it?”

  “Of course not. I knocked on his door to ask him if he’d seen King, and even though he tried to block the door, I . . . uh . . . looked around him and saw it lying on the table.”

  “So, a jewel thief—or fence—sits in his living room with a fortune in jewels lying on the table, and opens the door wide enough for any stranger to see it? Doesn’t wash, Harley.”

  She glared at him. “Well, maybe he was expecting someone else. Maybe he was stoned. Or maybe he’s just stupid.”

  “Or maybe it was costume jewelry.”

  She stood up, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. “Right. Thanks for the help. If this is how the MPD solves cases, it’s a wonder any crooks are ever caught.”

  “Aw Harley, don’t go away mad.”

  “I know—just go away. The least you could do is look up his name and see if he’s some kind of ax murderer living next door to my parents. Is that too much to ask?”

  Grinning, Bobby shook his head and leaned toward his computer. “Guess not. Not that I expect to find him listed, but since his name isn’t that common . . . hm.” He’d been tapping away at the keyboard, and something flickered on the monitor screen. Light played over his face as the screen scrolled. Finally, he said, “You may be on to something.”

  “Really? Oh, I just knew it. I’m right, aren’t I? Oh yeah, I’m right. Remember, share and share alike here. If this leads to a bust, I get the reward. I need it.” She smiled. “Maybe I’ll go back over there, sneak around and see what I can find out about Jett. That’d probably help out, wouldn’t it?”

  Not taking his eyes from the monitor, Bobby just nodded absently. When he finally turned to look at her, his eyes were guarded. “Wait
. No. Stay away from there, you understand?”

  She blinked. “Why? Is he . . . that dangerous?”

  There was a moment of taut silence, then Bobby said, “I’ll show you the printout.”

  Harley didn’t know what to think when he gave her several pages listing charges that ranged from simple assault to embezzling and even theft. It wasn’t just unnerving, it was . . . well, disappointing. It wasn’t that Bruno Jett meant anything to her; it just seemed a waste, that’s all. A man with a killer body like his shouldn’t really be a killer. She looked up at Bobby to find him watching her with an appraising look in his eyes. She frowned.

  Wait a minute . . . she’d seen that look before. It was his poker stare, the one he used when he had a pair of fours and was trying to bluff her down from a full house. She studied the papers again. There had to be a catch.

  The name on the printout said Bruno Jett. The description looked the same, and he’d been arrested for fencing stolen jewelry. It had to be the neighbor. Yet . . . she flipped through pages and then looked up at Bobby.

  “Where are the last few pages? It says there are nine pages, but there’s only six here.”

  “There are only six pages.”

  “Right. That’s why it says ‘one of nine, two of nine—’ don’t play cute, Bobby. Where’re the other pages? Why don’t you want me to see them?”

  He stood up. “I’ve got to be in a meeting in two minutes. If you find out anything, let me know, and I’ll keep you posted if I hear anything.”

  “You’re a lyin’ dog, Bobby Baroni. I can always tell when you’re lying.”

  He smiled, plucking the pages from her hand as he turned her around toward the door. “I gotta go. So do you. Bye, Harley.”

  Oh yeah. There was more to this than he was telling. But what?

  When she reached her Toyota, she saw a ticket stuck to the windshield. Illegal parking. Where had that Reserved for Police sign come from? It hadn’t been there when she’d parked, she was sure of it. Damn. Since it was pretty unlikely the sign had been sunk in concrete in the half hour she’d just wasted talking to Bobby, the odds were pretty good she just hadn’t noticed it. Now she did. And obviously, so had a cop. Double damn.