This Dog for Hire

by Carol Lea Benjamin

  I looked behind Magritte’s crate to see if there was a camel coat neatly folded and tucked back there, and noticed, right at the side of the crate, in plain sight, that Gil had left, in a small heap, a pile of change, his liver pouch, his calendar, and his card case.

  I opened the calendar first to January 19, the day Magritte had been stolen. There was no notation. Nor was there any under the 20th, the day Clifford was killed.

  Well, how unusual. It didn’t say, “Tuesday, January 19. Call Clifford Cole and find out when he’ll be out without his dog. Kidnap Magritte.”

  Nor did it say, “Wednesday, January 20. Murder Clifford Cole.”

  I put the calendar back where I had found it and picked up the card case, flipped it open, and found not only Gil’s business cards but his credit cards as well. It was a wonder to me that someone so dishonest could trust in the honesty of so many strangers and leave his valuables lying around where anyone could take them. Or did he have the poor judgment to trust that I would protect his valuables for him?

  There was only a raincoat behind the crate. Bummer. Not even a beret or a white scarf tucked into the sleeve. I reached into his coat pockets and, underneath a handkerchief and an extra show lead, found his key ring. After a quick peek around during which I discovered that no one was paying the least bit of attention to me and that Gil had not returned to find me with my hand in his pocket, I pulled out my own keys and checked the loft keys Dennis had given me against Gil’s ring.

  I slipped the keys back into the bottom of Gil’s pocket and put the raincoat back behind Magritte’s crate.

  There would have had to have been times when Gil had to pick up or drop off Magritte when Cliff couldn’t have been there. So Cliff did the only practical thing he could.

  He made Gil his own set.

  23

  You’d Have to Wonder

  “Here’s our boy!” I heard, close enough to startle me and loud enough for several aisles of people to hear.

  I turned to see Veronica Cahill, stunning in a double-breasted black pantsuit with gold buttons, bending from the waist to look Magritte in the eye.

  “You better win, you little vantz” she told him. “You’re costing me a fortune.”

  I got a wad of pretty good-looking tissues out just in time to catch a sneeze. Magritte sneezed back, as if I were playing his favorite game.

  Just behind Veronica, Louis Lane was standing and waiting, but clearly not waiting his turn to greet Magritte. He spotted me and opened his mouth, but I shook my head in time to close it for him.

  Veronica straightened up, making me feel like a troll. She was even taller than Louis.

  “He looks wonderful, darling,” she said, her hand on Louis’s chest. “There’s not another to equal him. I never get tired of looking at Magritte.” She winked at Louis, whose neck reddened.

  Perhaps it was his allergy acting up.

  “Come on, Veronica. Oughtn’t we try to get ringside now so we don’t miss anything?”

  “No, no. I want to see the others, the ones he’s up against, those scruffy little interlopers.” She turned down the aisle to check out the other basenjis, leaving Louis to follow or not.

  Louis’s mouth opened, then closed. Neither of us said a word.

  He was wearing a white sweater with a charcoal-gray jacket over it, a long white silk scarf draped around his neck. I wondered exactly what kind of game he was playing with Veronica. I wondered if, at least on this occasion, he had stretched a point and considered the virtues of bisexuality. For business purposes.

  “Naturally she’d be interested in what happens here with Magritte today. Considering”—he paused, but didn’t take his eyes off mine—“her investment.”

  I heard Magritte resettle in the crate and, without looking, poked my fingers in for him to sniff.

  “It can only help Clifford’s name. If Magritte wins. And”—he got his handkerchief out just in time to catch a triple sneeze—“you know what this would have meant to Clifford.”

  “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Louis,” I said. “I’m only the hired help.”

  “Life is for the living, Rachel,” he said. Then he turned and made his way down the aisle to Veronica.

  Lots of people were making their way up and back in the benching area, and whatever their reason for being at Westminster, they didn’t want to miss the chance to see Magritte. Some thought a barkless dog would be perfect for apartment living. No complaints from the neighbors about noise. Others were just attracted to anyone or anything important enough to be written about in the papers.

  Most of them just stopped by quickly, checked their catalog, poked their fingers at Magritte, then headed for the concessions or down the next aisle. Short-attention-span disease was rampantly on display. I was sneezing back and forth with Magritte to keep him amused when I became aware that yet another spectator had stopped in front of us. I looked up.

  “Pardon, is this Magritte?” His voice sounded hoarse.

  “Yes, it is,” I said.

  It was the stocky man from Cliff’s opening, now spiffed up in a navy suit, white shirt, and maroon tie. He bent to look into the crate.

  I wondered if he was a reporter. I looked for a press ribbon, de rigueur at Westminster, but there was none. Nor was there a Nikon or a Hasselblad hanging from his shoulder. Not a reporter.

  Maybe he was a dog trainer. He had a ruddy, used-up sort of face. Working outdoors, training dogs, can do that to you.

  Especially if when you finally come indoors, you do a shit-load of drinking.

  “Is he going to win?” he whispered in his raspy voice. “He really got some fabulous press, didn’t he?” He hiked his tan leather backpack higher onto one shoulder.

  “Maybe he’ll get the sympathy vote.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Maybe he will. Are you—?”

  “A friend.”

  “A friend of his?” he asked.

  I merely smiled.

  Most dog shows attract serious dog people, professionals who earn their living training or showing dogs and breeders who need to prove their stock and see what the competition is producing. This one, because of its location and the fabulous press it gets, even when none of the dogs competing have recently murdered owners, attracts a broader audience, families dragging their kids through the crowded aisles, hoping by looking and asking questions to select the perfect breed, the curious, the lonely. Rich or poor, the bored take in Westminster. They come to see Nanook, Rin Tin Tin, and Lassie, for a once-a-year lively alternative to the museum or the movies.

  He bent and looked at Magritte again, putting his face close to the cage. His dark hair was so even in tone, I wondered if it was natural.

  “He’s so quiet,” he said. “Is he always this quiet?” He straightened up. “Funny, isn’t it? It’s so hard to tell them apart. I wonder how the judges know which is which.”

  A detective listens, Bruce Petrie used to tell me. I thought this might be a good time to practice keeping my sarcastic mouth shut.

  “Unless, of course, the color is different.”

  I nodded.

  I wondered if he had used that stuff on his hair you comb in and no one’s supposed to notice that in three days your hair is suddenly the color of a desk.

  “I’m enjoying the show,” he volunteered.

  I nodded. I figured it might seem rude to ask. The whole idea is to fool people, isn’t it? I mean, even if you’re in your eighties and your hair is solid black, like enamel paint, or if, like Tony Bennett, you have a hairline considerably lower on your brow than it was when you were younger, no one’s supposed to know it’s not a result of Mother Nature’s glorious and perfect design.

  I checked my watch. “He’s going up at eleven-thirty,” I said. “Are you going to watch him in the ring?”

  “Eleven-thirty,” he repeated to himself. “I wasn’t going to stay, but I guess I shouldn’t miss that. Where would I go?”

  Despite the fact that he had a cata
log and could have looked it up himself, I told him the ring number.

  He nodded, then turned and made his way through the folds of humanity clogging the aisle, stopping and squatting low to look inside the other basenji crates as he had done with Magritte.

  “Here he is. So what’s the big deal!”

  There were two women in front of Magritte’s crate now, one tall and thick, built like a tree, hair shorn short in front, the rest pulled back and tied with a scarf, the other short and soft and round with breasts that began under her chin and ended somewhere around her pillowlike stomach. The tall one clutched her catalog to her chest. The other kept methodically pulling pieces of rice cake from her pocket and putting them into her mouth.

  “This is Magritte, isn’t it?” the short one said.

  I nodded. I was going to have a neck like a nose tackle by the end of the show.

  “The News says he’s a shoo-in,” she said, a real edge in her voice. There was a thin mustache on her upper lip that she apparently hadn’t had time to wax or bleach.

  The tall woman checked her catalog and then bent to look into Magritte’s crate.

  “Orion has a better ear set,” she said to no one in particular.

  “They say he’ll take Best in Show,” the short woman said.

  Her skin was doughy and pale, with small scabs on her cheeks. Her short, curly hair was dyed aubergine. I’ve always thought that color looked better where it belonged, on an eggplant.

  “Well, he hasn’t taken the breed yet,” I said. “There are lots of other good dogs here today.”

  “But none as brave and famous as this one,” she said, sarcasm dripping off her tongue along with a fine spray of rice cake.

  In 1984 rumor had it that the Newfoundland Ch. Seaward’s Blackbeard would take Best in Show before he had even drooled and rolled his way into the Garden to compete in the breed. And he did. But that kind of successful second-guessing was rare, and even though some people assumed BIS was already a done deal at this show, I wasn’t one of them. I refused to make assumptions about Magritte’s chances.

  I supposed they had a basenji entered and didn’t care for the edge Magritte had picked up when he lost his owner and gained Veronica Cahill’s publicist. I was going to ask which dog was theirs, but not wanting another rice cake shower, I decided not to. Instead I picked up Gil’s catalog, hoping they’d take the hint and go away.

  You wouldn’t have to be a detective to figure out which dog was theirs. Ch. Turkon’s Heavenly Hunter, a male, four years old. That would make them Poppy O’Neal and Addie Turkic But which was which I couldn’t say.

  Once they had moved on, Poppy or Addie leaving a trail of puffed rice, like Hansel or Gretel in the woods, I got up to stretch, then stood up on the bench where I had been sitting to see if I could spot Gil. It was getting close to the time for Magritte to go get brushed, go potty, and present himself ringside. But Gil was not to be seen.

  I remembered a story Chip had once told me about a famous handler. She had arranged to show a boxer the owner thought had great potential but was herself unable to win a major with. The handler met the owner and dog outside the ring the very moment the dogs were called. The owner had been standing and waiting, afraid the handler wouldn’t show. The dog, absorbing all her anxiety, stood next to her, his head low, his tail down. As the handler took the leash, not saying a word to either of them, the dog’s head came up, giving his neck an elegant arch, his dark eyes danced, his tiny, docked tail shot straight up and began beating rapidly from side to side. He won the breed, finishing his championship, and later on, with the same handler holding the leash, all know-how and confidence, he took the group.

  If Magritte took the breed today, wouldn’t it be a bittersweet victory? Like Clifford’s soaring career, you’d have to wonder if all the great press, the sympathy, the sheer drama of recent events, would have made for a win that in the normal course of events wouldn’t have happened.

  I saw Gil approaching from the opposite way he had left. He was walking with another man, who was small and thin, his hair and skin the same dead-looking steely gray, a cigarette apparently stuck onto his dry lower lip despite the fact that there was no smoking allowed and that this was announced over loudspeakers with predictable regularity.

  “—should go up. After today,” the little man said in his gravelly voice as they got near enough for me to hear them.

  “Without a doubt,” Gil said. “You can bank on it.” He smiled at me but didn’t bother to introduce me to the little man, who ignored me so completely at first that I thought perhaps he hadn’t seen me sitting next to Magritte’s crate. When he finally took notice of me, he merely tossed me a hard stare, then turned back to Gil.

  Gil reached in and took Magritte out of his crate, tucked him snugly under his arm, picked up his tack box, checked his other pocket for a show lead and his armband with Magritte’s number on it, pulling them each out and then carefully replacing them, and headed for the grooming area, the little man at his side, me trailing behind like an obedient puppy.

  “The chances are good. Is that what you’re saying?” the gray man said, one eye closed to let the smoke drift by.

  “Excellent,” Gil answered. He found his spot, put Magritte up on the table, and, taking a brush out of the tack box, began to brush him. “You just leave it to me, Doc.”

  Doc reflected on what he had heard, standing next to the grooming table and puffing on the stub of his cigarette. When it finally got too small to smoke, he held it between two dry yellow fingers, took another from his pocket, popped it into his mouth, lit it with the stub, and despite the fact that there were dogs all over the place, dropped the stub on the floor without bothering to step on it. “I’ll be ringside,” he said.

  After Doc had left, Gil reached into the tack box and took out an electric nail grinder. Magritte backed up a step, but the noose on the grooming table kept him from retreating any farther. Like every other dog I’ve ever met, he hated having his nails done. Gil plugged in the grinder, reached into his jacket pocket, felt around, and came up with a piece of dried liver. Magritte’s tail began to wag, but to his dismay, the treat went not toward his own mouth but into Gil’s. Liver Lips began to make a series of revolting slurping sounds, making me wonder if in another incarnation he had been a construction worker. He turned on the grinder and, lifting one paw at a time, began to work on Magritte’s nails. When he finished the last foot, he leaned his face right into Magritte’s and let the dog ever so gently take the moistened piece of liver from between his lips. Here was a man who truly lived up to his nickname.

  That finished, Gil went on with the rest of Magritte’s grooming routine, wiping him down briskly with a mitt to bring out the shine in his coat, powdering and wiping off his paws, and finally, spraying Show Foot paw tack on his pads to prevent him from slipping in the ring.

  “Make yourself useful,” he said, handing me the tack box. He hoisted Magritte and headed for the nearest exercise pen, the doggy bathroom, where we silently waited our turn on line, standing in the red cedar chips that spilled out as each satisfied customer emerged. The chain-link pens were hung with plastic sheeting, not for privacy, though an occasional dog did care, but to protect passersby from getting what in my neighborhood is called a golden shower.

  When Magritte had finished, Gil lifted him again. The crowds were much too formidable to walk a small dog through the benching area and onto the floor where the judging took place.

  Gil pushed his way through a constantly reappearing wall of people, me following along behind as usual. We stopped at Magritte’s bench, where I dropped off the tack box and Gil handed me Magritte just long enough to strap on his bait pouch and secure his armband with a single rubber band around the middle. After pushing and shoving for another two minutes, we were finally ringside.

  24

  For No Apparent Reason

  Gil went around to the side just below the stands, where only handlers with their dogs were allowed. We ha
d arrived ringside just as the basset hounds were finishing up, so, having manners more suitable for the IRT than any place above-ground, I elbowed and kneed my way around to the far side, where there was a single row of padded red folding chairs, and snagged one. Of course, there were plenty of seats in the stands, but those didn’t place viewers nearly as close as they’d be sitting or standing ringside on the Garden floor.

  Within moments, the basset people were replaced by basenji fanciers, catalogs open, ready to mark the wins.

  Poppy and Addie were on the end of the row, to my left, funereal expressions on their faces. Beyond them, down the left side, I spotted Dennis. He was standing against the lavender velvet rope that demarcated the parameters of the ring, staring straight ahead.

  When I turned to scan the opposite side, I saw the object of Dennis’s gaze: Louis Lane, standing so close to his companion you’d have trouble slipping a foil-wrapped latex condom between them.

  Veronica was whispering in his ear. From where I was sitting, her features looked too big after all.

  Especially her nose.

  Doc was up in the stands. He looked as dehydrated and gray as if he had died ages ago but no one had bothered to bury him.

  I spotted Aggie too, standing ringside, near where the handlers entered. She was wearing a fuzzy aqua sweater with little faux pearls sewn all over it, perhaps to coordinate with her faux hair color. Even from where I was sitting, it seemed she had put on her makeup with a steam shovel.

  The judge, ready to begin, nodded to the steward, who signaled the handlers. Gil placed Magritte down onto the floor, gave ever so small a pop to the lead, and that quickly, Magritte came to life. The ten basenji contenders, led by their handlers, entered the ring to great applause from the ringside fanciers and lined up inches from where I sat, to be stacked in show pose as a group and then examined, one at a time, by the judge.

  Watching Am Staffs, Goldens, shelties, or Chinese cresteds does not prepare you for the basenji ring. Wherever basenjis are, they need to be elsewhere. It’s just their nature.