This Dog for Hire

by Carol Lea Benjamin

  “It’s all set,” he said, holding the shake with both hands. “To, you know, go upstairs and see John.”

  Dennis arrived on time with Magritte tucked under his arm. We headed for the elevator.

  I walked into John’s room alone. He appeared to be asleep.

  “Will?”

  He opened his eyes. “Oh, it the dog lady. Where he at?” He picked his head up to look beyond me.

  “He’s not here today, Will, but I have to ask you some questions about another dog, the one you saw on the Christopher Street pier. The one who frightened you because he didn’t bark. Remember?”

  “I’n’t remember nothin’ from then,” he said, looking suspicious. “Why you aks?”

  “Well, there was a young man murdered that night.”

  He looked away, toward the window.

  “Billy?”

  “Yeah, a young man murder’d.”

  “And you were the one who told the police that there was a body on the pier. Remember?”

  “A body. Yeah.”

  “Billy, did you see the young man before he got killed? Did you see him walking with the little dog onto the pier? Think hard, Bill, it’s so important.”

  “No,” he said, “Ah di’n’t see tha’.”

  “I have the little dog here, Bill. The one you saw. The one you were afraid of because he didn’t bark, remember? The one you saw on the Christopher Street pier.”

  “Oh shit,” he said.

  “Now listen to me, Bill, this dog does not bite. He doesn’t bark because he can’t. Did you hear him make some other sounds that night, like cries?”

  I ducked back into the hall where Dennis, Magritte, and Ronald were standing and lifted Magritte into my arms. I stepped back into the room but stayed right at the door. Billy didn’t move. I bent and kissed Magritte on top of his head, and he lifted his muzzle and licked my mouth. I could feel the heat of his body where I held him against my side.

  “He’s a very gentle dog, Bill, or I wouldn’t have brought him. I thought if you saw him again, it might help you to remember what you saw.”

  “I never forget what I sees tha’ time.”

  “How come?”

  “Be a hard night.” Billy Pittsburgh squeezed his eyes shut. A single tear rolled down one cheek.

  “Bill, was the young man already dead when you first saw him?”

  Billy Pittsburgh sat bolt upright in his bed. “Does I look like a doctor? Hey, I’m not a doctor. I’m a fucking dope addict. How’m I s’posed to know if he alive or dead?” He shook his head. “No sir. I don’t know nothin’ about that What you aksing me that fo’?” He fell back against his pillow, all his energy gone as suddenly as it came.

  “Billy?”

  “Okay. Okay. I hears you.” He pulled the cover up to his neck, his hands shaking badly. “He ’live.”

  “But you said you didn’t see him walking onto the pier with his dog, with this dog?”

  “You aks me if I sees th’ man goin’ wit th’ dawg. I di’n’t. He go alone.”

  “Alone? Are you sure?”

  “I sure. Man, I sure I do not wanna do this.”

  “Please, Bill. Please help us out.”

  “Okay. You aks me. I goin’ tell it.” He held up one trembling finger. “Car comes.” Then a second finger. “A white man take th’ dawg an’ drag ’im out th’ pier, t’ th’ end. He tie him they.” A third finger, his thumb, the nail bitten short. “He go back t’ th’ car and he sit they.”

  His hand was shaking so badly he put it under the blanket.

  “Th’ young white man come,” he continued. “Th’ dawg, th’ one you got, he carryin’ on, somethin’ awful. The young ’un, he hears ’im an he start t’ run t’ ’im.”

  Billy’s eyes are now full, and tears, one after the other, slide down his cheeks.

  “And th’ first man, th’ man in th’ car, he start up the motor, he put the lights on and he drive after th’ second man.”

  He lifts his hands and covers his face.

  “He knock ’im down. He back out an’ leave ’im they. He leave th’ dawg they an’ the dawg cry out for ’ours ’n I di’n’t go look ’til he gots ’imself out o’ th’ collar and runs away, because I always hears if a dawg don’t bark, it bite. Tha’s what my mama tol’ me. Yes, sir.”

  I felt a tear run into my neck and realized that I was crying, too.

  I walked over and sat on the side of Billy’s bed. Magritte was as still as cold water. Slowly, Billy Pittsburgh reached out his hand and let Magritte lick his long, thin, trembling fingers.

  “Billy,” I said, “did you tell this story to the police?”

  “No,” he said. “I di’n’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “They di’n’t aks me nuthin.’ I’s on drugs ’n they figure I di’n’t know nothin’.”

  I turned toward the door. Dennis and Ronald had moved into the doorway.

  “This is Dennis, Bill. The young man was his best friend.”

  “I sorry, man,” Billy said, “I so sorry ’bout you friend.”

  “Bill,” Dennis said. He seemed unable to say anything else.

  “One more thing, Bill. Do you remember anything about the car, anything at all?”

  He shook his head.

  “Thank you, Bill. We want to find this man. You’ve helped us a lot Can I come back soon with Dash, you know, Petey?”

  He nodded. I squeezed his arm and turned to leave.

  “Black,” he said.

  I turned around and looked at him.

  “New.”

  I nodded.

  “’Merican. Th’s all I see.”

  He shrugged and turned back toward the window. There was a pigeon on the sill, its head down, its wings tight to its sides, like an old man with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

  “I di’n’t know ’t was goin’ happen. Cunna stop’t ’t nohow. Not nohow.”

  “Nobody thinks you could have,” I said. “This wasn’t your fault, Bill.”

  He turned his lumpy face toward me.

  “Then why’m I bein’ punish?” he asked.

  In the taxi on the way to the Garden, the little basenji curled up on the seat between us, and Dennis was nearly rigid.

  “He got Cliff out there with Magritte,” he said.

  “What do you want to do?” I asked.

  “Kill him,” Dennis said.

  “Dennis, that’s not your job. And we’re not positive it was Gil. Let’s take this a step at a time. First, what do you want to do now, about Westminster and Magritte? Should we even be going?”

  “Oh God, Rachel, we have to. Clifford wanted this more than anything. Magritte has to go up today. But how can I give him to Gil?”

  “Look, Dennis, even if what we suspect is true and Gil committed the murder, we have no reason to think he’d hurt Magritte. If that’s what he had wanted to do, he had the opportunity the night of the murder. Besides, he’s been doing pretty well with Magritte and he might just think things will continue along as they were, only with you the one he’s cheating instead of Cliff. Let him think that. Be charming. For God’s sake, Dennis, just act dumb. Okay?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts. Here’s what I want you to do. Just give Magritte to Gil, no problem, okay? Tell him you’ve changed your plans, the trip got canceled, and you’re taking Magritte home right after the show. Eight-thirty, on the button, you’ll get Magritte from the benching area and bring him to your box. Unless, of course, he takes the breed. In that case, you’ll be able to keep your eye on him because he’ll be in the group, right in front of your face.

  “The rest is up to me. I’m going to hang out in the benching area. I’m a big fan of Magritte’s, remember? Gil knows all about my precious Crystal. He’s already offered to cut me a deal. So he won’t find it weird to see me there. I’ll ask a lot of questions. I’ll even tag along when he goes to the grooming area. When he’s with Magritte, I’ll stick to him like peanut butter on
the roof of his lying mouth.

  “I’ll be ringside when he goes up at eleven-thirty. I’ll see you there, but I can’t sit with you. I can’t sit with you tonight either. Gil can’t know that we know each other. Okay? Then, after tonight, we’ll figure out where to go with the case, okay? I still have to prove he did it, Dennis, if he did it. So far, the evidence is all circumstantial—mounting, but circumstantial.

  “You still have your trip tomorrow. But I’ll have Magritte. You’ll give him to me tonight, just as we planned. And if I work my can off and we’re really lucky, maybe I’ll have something more concrete by the time you get back from Boston. So are you with me on this?”

  The cab had stopped at Eighth Avenue and Thirty-second Street. Dennis just sat there.

  “Dennis?”

  He nodded, then reached for his wallet. “Sorry,” he said, coming back to life. He handed the driver a ten and then turned to look at me.

  “Rachel, what would I do without you? You’re the greatest.”

  “Yeah. Yeah,” I said, lifting Magritte and making sure I had a good grip on his lead before I opened the door, “if any of your other friends have a loved one killed, you can recommend me.”

  22

  Take Your Time, I Told Him

  We showed our tickets, then Dennis and I began to bulldoze our way into the benching area, passing and being passed by a sea of handlers with dogs of every size, color, and possible shape, Afghans and salukis sporting silver-lame snoods to keep their long, feathered ears clean and dry, drooly dogs wearing bibs to catch the saliva that would periodically stream down from their loose flews, Yorkies and silkies, their long coats sectioned, wrapped in paper, and rolled in curlers to keep it from getting damaged, let down only on the grooming table and in the ring.

  Dogs of astonishing size were carried, some on the hip or high up over the shoulder, like babies, and just as passive. Some were so docile they allowed themselves to be cradled, back down, feet up, or just held close to the chest. They were amazingly pliable, having stood on a grooming table and been manipulated into position from the time they were weaned.

  There were photographers, too, nearly one per dog it seemed, shooting everything, dogs sitting not in but on their crates, dogs with teddy bears, dogs that were all coat, resembling mops, and dogs that had no coat, hairless dogs, so vulnerable looking they made you want to cry.

  Even before we got to row six, Dennis and I separated. He headed directly for Magritte’s spot, and I turned the other way, meandering past the rows of benched dogs on one side and concessions on the other. The benching area, raised platforms covered in sturdy green outdoor carpeting where the dogs are assigned to stay when not in the doggy bathrooms, the grooming area, or the ring, was surrounded by booths selling books, magazines, food, jewelry, all for dogs or dog related. Going around the long way, I’d eventually come to the area where the basenjis were benched from the opposite side.

  From that moment on, whether Morgan Gilmore liked it or not, everywhere he looked, for the rest of the day, at least, I’d be in his face.

  By the time I had worked my way to Magritte’s assigned spot, Dennis was gone and Magritte was asleep in his crate, his chin resting on one hind leg, his white-tipped tail uncurled. Photos of him taking the breed at other shows were propped on top of the crate, and alongside, a stack of Morgan Gilmore’s business cards.

  “Do you think he’ll ask to win today?” I asked Gil’s ponytail.

  He turned, scowled, and raised his eyebrows. My face was becoming for him like so many had been for me all the years I’d gone to dog shows, someone you see at every event but have trouble remembering exactly who they are, where you met them, or why they’re there. We had talked at Cliff’s opening, and he had probably seen me at the Ken-L Ration award banquet, but he couldn’t place me. He was one of those people who didn’t really pay attention to anyone he deemed less important than he was, which in Gil’s case was nearly everyone. I wondered what he was hiding under all that arrogance.

  “Crystal’s mom,” I said. With considerable pride.

  He nodded. “She’s not—?”

  “In heat? No, April, I think.”

  “No, I was wondering if she was entered?”

  I hadn’t given him a registered name, just a call name, and since he didn’t know my name, he’d have slim chance of knowing if any of the bitches being shown in the Best in Breed competition were my precious angel. Unless he knew all the dogs, which, with only ten entries, was certainly possible.

  “No,” I said, looking down at the vicinity of his cowboy boots. “She needs one more major.”

  Gil nodded, looking vaguely bored and annoyed. He needed me hanging around like he needed Lyme disease.

  “So, do you think Magritte is up for this today? Does he have that I-want-to-win attitude he’s so famous for?”

  “Always,” Gil said. “Dog’s never had a bad day in his life.”

  “I guess he had one or two,” I said.

  Gil smoothed back his hair and, holding on to his ponytail, pushed up the band that held it. He tightened his string tie, too. “I guess you’re right. I guess he has had a couple of bad days at that. But today he’s going to have a good day. An excellent day. You know,” he added, “when you show your little girl next time out, don’t be thinking about her bad days. Makes for bad karma. You people, you’re all alike. Think you can do the job of a professional. Always looking to save a little money. And what does it get you? The dog picks up all your negativity and you find yourself with a self-fulfilling prophecy on your hands.”

  He leaned toward me, his back to Magritte’s crate and one boot up on the bench.

  “That might be Crystal’s whole problem. What I’m saying is, you might be her whole problem.”

  “You mean—”

  “Little lady,” he said, standing straight now to show me his full magnificence, “I can guarantee you that major Crystal is missing. No problem. We even can get that out of the way, if you like, before she comes into season so that you’ll be breeding not just a dog but a champion. Think about your advertising. Champion sire and dam. Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it? You’ve got to learn to think ahead, think about marketing.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “You get some of these serious show folk won’t touch a pup unless both parents have proven themselves in the ring. Now you know that’s the good Lord’s honest truth, don’t you?”

  “Well, I don’t know, it’s awfully expensive to have a dog campaigned, isn’t it?”

  “If you’re interested, I feel sure, as reasonable people, that we could work something out. After all, you’re talking short term here. Unless of course she turns out to be so good you want to special her. Then we’re talking a whole ’nother story.”

  “Could you do it, like, if I met you at the shows? Or would you have to actually take her?”

  “In order to give you that guarantee, I’d take her south, young lady. Where the winning is easy. A month. Two months at the outside.”

  “Well, how much would that be? I mean, exactly.”

  He leaned close enough now that I could smell the coffee he had had earlier that morning and the spicy smell of the pomade he used to slick back his thinning hair. “Twelve a month. Plus expenses, of course. Much less than you thought, am I right?”

  I nodded.

  “I can bring in that championship for under five for you. Do you believe that?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” I said. Too harsh, Kaminsky, I warned myself. “I mean, that’s incredible! Truly.”

  I walked around him, bent to look into Magritte’s crate, and saw his lovely, almond-shaped brown eyes looking back at me. His paws were crossed, left over right, and he was calmly surveying the scene. When I straightened up, I picked up a picture of him taking the breed in Monmouth County. Gil, in cowboy boots and a light blue jacket, was holding the leash taut and looking proudly down at Magritte, who stood, as in all these pictures, perpendicular to the photographer, showing off his level
topline, his lovely wedge head, his wonderful double-curled tail, and his burnished copper coat, which shone like silk in the sunshine. I put the photo back carefully among the others and picked up one of Gil’s cards.

  “I sure would love to see a picture of Crystal like that. Taking the group. And I sure would love to see her here next year.” Now I stood on my toes and whispered into his ear. “That’s my dream. Westminster.”

  It’s not hard to intone Westminster as if you were in church. For die-hard dog people, it was church.

  “You really gave me something to think about,” I said, feeling smug. I had successfully established my presence in his face for the day. Magritte was safe.

  Or so I thought.

  “Look, if you want to go for coffee or something, I’ll stay with Magritte. There’s nothing else I want to do today but think over your, uh, offer, and watch Magritte take the breed.” I held up both hands with my fingers crossed.

  Gil brightened up. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?” he asked. “Well, if you’re planning on sticking around anyway—”

  “Absolutely. There’s nothing I’d rather do than be near Magritte.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, “if you’re sure. I could use a coffee and a run by the rings.”

  Good, I thought, time to snoop.

  “Take your time,” I told him, and he took off without saying another word.

  I peeked inside the crate. Magritte was asleep. I suddenly realized how vulnerable he was, left by his duly authorized agent with a complete stranger who could easily lift him out of his crate, carry him to the escalator, ride down, and leave the Garden without anyone noticing or saying a word.

  Who the fuck was I that he could leave the dog in his charge in my care!

  Dogs were stolen all the time, not all of them from backyards, cars, or where they had been left for just a half a moment while the owner ducked into a store to buy a Boston lettuce.

  But in fact I hadn’t taken the time to ingratiate myself with Magritte’s handler in order to steal Magritte, not that that made this Morgan Gilmore’s lucky day. Quite the contrary. I had weaseled my way here to protect Magritte, and while I was at it, see if I could find something that would make the evidence against his handler more concrete than speculative.