As Dog Is My Witness

by JEFFREY COHEN

  But I wasn’t going to apologize for it.

  At that moment, a hand, palm flat, hit me smack on the shoulder. I was so lost in my Talmudic musings I hadn’t even noticed the three men standing on the sidewalk under a bare tree—a very unusual sight in this neighborhood at this time of night. They were wearing matching parkas, with fur-lined hoods, like Elliot Gould wore in M*A*S*H.

  “Tucker,” the one with the palm said. He was the smallest, only about five inches taller than me.

  I blinked. In this cold, without my contact lenses in, it was hard to see their faces in the hoods. There were three of them—big, bigger, and biggest—and based on the gravelly voice, this one had been gargling less with the Listerine and more with the glass bottle it came in.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know you,” I said. “I don’t have my glasses on, and . . .

  “It’s okay,” said Bigger. “We know you.” I didn’t like the way that sounded.

  “Really? Who’s we?” No sense acting scared. Of course, in this case, I wouldn’t have been acting, but still.

  “We want you to stop asking questions about the guy in North Brunswick,” Big said. “It’s none of your business.”

  “I’m a reporter,” I said. “Whatever they tell me to ask about is my business.”

  Big looked at Bigger in disbelief and laughed. “You don’t understand,” he said. “You’re not being asked—you’re being told. Stop asking about the guy in North Brunswick.”

  I looked over at Biggest, who had neither moved nor spoken. “I really can’t see that well,” I said to Bigger. “Is he alive?”

  “Do you want to stay alive?” Bigger answered.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I screamed, hoping someone would call the cops about the noise. “Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do? Why should I stop reporting on Michael Huston’s murder?”

  Big nodded, acknowledging the question. “Because Mr. Shapiro doesn’t like it,” he said.

  Mr. Shapiro! I kept up the brave front, although I had to pretend my hands were shaking from the cold.

  “And who’s this Mr. Shapiro?” I asked, outwardly unconcerned. So what if my intestines had gone liquid.

  “Don’t waste my time,” Bigger said. He reached into his pocket.

  “Don’t shoot me,” I said. “With all these clothes on, it would just be a waste of a good bullet.”

  “Is that what you think? That we’re gonna shoot you?” Big looked serious, as if he were considering the idea. But his hand came out of his pocket with a piece of hard candy, which he struggled to unwrap with his gloves on. Nice work, Tucker, suggesting your own demise to three woolly mammoths in the dark.

  “Be very careful about sudden movements,” I said. “This dog doesn’t like it when people threaten me.”

  They took a look at Warren’s little beagle face and long basset ears, and laughed—except Biggest.

  “Don’t let his appearance fool you,” I said. “He’s vicious. Bit three mailmen . . . yesterday.”

  They laughed louder. Maybe I could humor them into letting me live. Visions of Leah crying at my funeral didn’t make me feel very comical.

  “You’re kidding, right?” said Bigger. “That’s a toy dog.” He bent his knees to pet Warren.

  Warren, to his everlasting salvation and my amazement, growled and snapped at Bigger’s hand. Bigger recoiled with astonishment and stood up. “Hey . . . he said.

  Warren growled louder, and barked, baring his teeth. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Nobody’s getting hurt,” said Big. “We had a message to deliver, and we delivered it. That’s all.”

  “So you don’t mind if I take my dog home now?”

  “Course not,” said Big. “Nobody means no harm.” I started to walk Warren past the three men.

  “Just remember what we said,” Bigger reminded me.

  As I passed Biggest, I looked over my shoulder at him. “Keep it down,” I told him. “People around here are trying to sleep.”

  Warren and I double-timed it home, although he had to stop to do what a walk is for about half a block from the house. I made it all the way into the house before I did the same.

  I crept silently into our bedroom and closed the door as quietly as I could, but as I climbed into bed (after leaving my Admiral Byrd outfit in the bathroom), Abby stirred and put her hand on my shoulder.

  I took her into my arms and held her tight. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  There were just two more school days before the kids started “Winter Break,” which we used to call by its real name, “Christmas Vacation.” Separation of church and state being what it is in this country, it’s okay to have Christmas trees in municipal buildings, and to sing all about the birth of Jesus in public schools, but you’d better not call it “Christmas Vacation.” Maybe it’s me.

  I knew there were two days left before Winter Break because Ethan had made a point of walking into the kitchen every morning for the past two weeks and, in a loud, clear voice, announcing exactly how many days were left until Winter Break. Today was no exception.

  I was making lunches for Leah and Ethan—making Ethan’s lunch consists of taking the proper pre-packaged ingredients and putting them in a lunch bag—when he marched in without greeting and called out “ten more hours!”

  “It’s two days,” I corrected.

  “Ten hours in school,” he said, correcting my correction. Apparently, last night’s tussle had faded into the recesses of his memory, and he was back to a jaunty mood. He hadn’t noticed Dylan sitting at the kitchen table, drinking organic orange juice that Abby had bought special, to Howard’s specifications.

  “Ten hours,” Dylan chirped, aping Ethan’s high-pitched voice. I shot a dark look in Dylan’s direction, and he gazed innocently at me, as if someone else had been mocking my son. Before she left for work, Abby had again asked me to hold my feelings in check with the visiting Steins, and therefore avoid any possible strains on her feelings. People who work outside the home are cowards. I didn’t react verbally to Dylan.

  Howard and Andrea strode out through the basement door while I was putting the kids’ lunches into their backpacks. After all, it was after seven in the morning, they were on vacation, and they were sleeping in. They were fully dressed, and my guess was that the basement was neater now than it had been in months. I went upstairs to see if Leah, who actually had to be somewhere at eight, was out of bed yet.

  She was in the bathroom brushing her teeth, so I went back downstairs and into the kitchen. Ethan had poured himself some cereal and was eating it, as usual without milk. Dylan, who clearly considered this scandalous, watched wide-eyed while his parents drank the coffee Abby had made for them. I avoid coffee, mostly because it tastes like raw sewage, so I’m bad at brewing the stuff. I’m told coffee drinkers can taste a difference.

  Ethan wasn’t looking in Dylan’s direction, so he didn’t see the stares. This, naturally, frustrated Dylan, so he decided to bring his astonishment out into the open.

  “You eat cereal without milk?” His voice rose about half an octave.

  Ethan, wondering if eating dry cereal was something he shouldn’t do, looked into the bowl, then back at Dylan, and nodded. “Yeah. I like it that way.”

  “How can you do that?”

  I looked over at him. Suppressing the fury I badly wanted to express, I said evenly, “Dylan . . .

  Howard looked up from the New York Times I was supposed to be reading. “He’s just exhibiting a healthy curiosity, Aaron,” he said. But Andrea, doing her best to be tolerant of the “afflicted” boy, shook her head sadly.

  “He’s not being sensitive,” she told her husband.

  Ethan was now confused about his breakfast, which is the last thing he needed. He stood and poured the remainder of his cereal into the garbage can under the sink. I clamped my jaws shut, and Ethan, knowing the next step in the morning ritual, headed for the kitchen counter, where hi
s Ritalin is kept.

  My son takes fifteen milligrams of Ritalin before school every morning, and another ten after lunch at school. It helps him focus on his schoolwork, smoothes his moods, and generally makes it easier for him to get through the day. Even within the Asperger community, there’s considerable debate about the benefit of Ritalin, but for my kid, it makes a beneficial difference. If you think Ritalin’s bad, I suggest you don’t give it to your kid.

  I took the pills out of the separate bottles (one ten milligram tablet, one five) and handed them to Ethan, who had already poured himself a little orange juice. Now, Dylan was practically hemorrhaging from amazement.

  “Are you sick?” he asked Ethan in an exaggerated voice. “Are you contagious?”

  “All right,” I said. “That’s enough.”

  Andrea walked over to her fifteen-year-old son, put an arm around his broad shoulder, and talked to Dylan like he had just discovered a man was making Elmo move. “Remember what we told you about Ethan,” she said soothingly. “He just needs a little help with his . . . condition.”

  “Oh, please!” I said. I couldn’t stand it anymore. “His condition? What is he, pregnant?”

  Howard frowned at this outpouring of messy emotion. “Really, Aaron,” he said, “is this necessary?” If only he’d been smoking a pipe, the effect would have been perfect. And wearing a captain’s hat, that would have been good, too.

  I ignored him, which came naturally to me, and walked over to Dylan. “Ethan is fine,” I told him. “There’s nothing wrong with Ethan. The meds help him concentrate, and I guarantee you, six kids in every one of your classes take higher doses and act up more.”

  Ethan, to his credit, shrugged off the whole thing and was heading for the door about the time Leah came downstairs. We bid Ethan a good day as he donned a sweatshirt with a hood, the only outerwear he will tolerate, to protect himself against the frigid weather. He’d be a half hour early for school, but luckily, on a day like today, they let the kids wait inside the school.

  Leah and I have a routine we do every morning, where she finishes brushing her hair (a long and intricate process), then comes and sits in my lap in my office chair and tells me a riddle. I wasn’t sure if she’d be interested in doing that today, with people watching, and sure enough, she didn’t make a move toward me after the Brushing of the Hair had been completed.

  As he pored over the Business Section, Howard, I could tell, was itching to discuss my awful breach of conduct with his son (or rather, to explain to me how I was wrong), but wasn’t willing to talk to me about that with others present. I was becoming something of an underground success—everybody wanted to talk to me, but they didn’t want anyone else to know it.

  Andrea, unfortunately, had no such compunction. When I retreated to my office, she followed me in and hissed in a low voice, “You shouldn’t get so angry, Aaron. Dylan is just curious.”

  “Don’t confuse curiosity with maliciousness, Andrea. He wants to get a rise out of Ethan, and I’m not going to allow it. Ethan has a rough enough time getting through the day without provocation before he leaves the house.”

  “I know you think I’m just an airhead, but I’m not,” she replied. “I’m trying to be understanding.”

  “I don’t think you’re an airhead,” I told her. “I think you’re unwilling to see the flaws in your own son, and so you concentrate on what you see as the flaws in mine, and you rationalize your behavior by pretending to worry about Ethan. Ethan doesn’t need your sympathy—he needs a little help. But he’s smarter than all of us, and, believe me, he’ll do just fine.”

  Cornered, she reverted to second grade behavior. “My son may tease, but your son bites,” Andrea said.

  Andrea would have further retaliated, but Leah walked through on her way to the front door, and I got up to intercept her, leaving Andrea alone to be understanding. As Leah put on her backpack, I leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Let’s hear it.”

  A sly smile appeared on her face. “How many letters are there in the alphabet?” she whispered.

  I’ve learned never to guess correctly, even when I’m sure I know the answer. The trick here is to send the child off to school with a victory behind her. Besides, I didn’t know what the correct answer was, since “twenty-six” was clearly wrong. “I don’t know,” I said quietly.

  “Eleven,” she said. “T-H-E A-L-P-H . . . She counted on her fingers to illustrate.

  “Very funny,” I said. “Now, go to school.” She kissed me and walked out, giggling.

  Now, the hard part. I walked back into the kitchen. Dylan had gone upstairs to play video games. Ethan, after all, was no longer around to get in his way. And Howard, face stern and disciplinary, stood from the table when I entered.

  “Aaron,” he began to intone.

  “I’d love to have this discussion now, Howard,” I told him, “but I have to go see the chief of police, and then follow a rental car mechanic. It’s a full morning.”

  That took him by surprise. “A rental car mechanic,” he repeated. “Um, why . . . ?”

  “I do that every Thursday,” I said. “Don’t you?”

  “Before you leave, perhaps you can help us,” he said. “We’re going into Manhattan today to take Dylan to the Guggenheim,” he said. “But we need to drop off the rental car first.”

  “Why? Aren’t you going to be using the car this week?”

  He seemed startled. “My sister said we could use your car,” Howard said.

  “My car? The Saturn?”

  “Abby said it would be all right.”

  “Funny, she didn’t mention it to me.” She knew I hated driving the minivan.

  “I’m not lying, Aaron.”

  “I don’t think you are. So what’s the problem, Howard?”

  “Perhaps you’d follow us to the rental office and drive us back to your place. Once we drop off the car, we’ll have no way to get here.”

  Much as the idea of them with no way to get back appealed to me, I was confused. “Why doesn’t one of you just drive the Saturn and follow the other to the rental place?”

  “Then we wouldn’t be able to ride together,” Andrea said.

  “And the problem with that is . . . ?”

  Howard looked at me. “This is a family vacation, Aaron. We intend to spend it together as much as possible.”

  “Isn’t this taking it to extremes, or do you also follow each other into the bathroom?”

  Howard winced. “There’s no need to be disgusting, Aaron. And since you don’t have to be in an office. . .

  “Let me get my keys,” I snarled.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “They made you drive them up there so they wouldn’t have to be apart for ten minutes?” Barry Dutton, who looks like the box the United Nations building came in, only with arms, shook his head. “Are you sure this guy is related to Abby by blood?”

  “If he didn’t look like Abby, I’d wonder if her mom had a thing going with the mailman,” I said. “But they both resemble their father—only Abby pulls it off better.”

  “That’s not why you’re here, is it, Aaron?” Being chief of police in Midland Heights meant Barry was overworked and understaffed. He didn’t have time to waste, and besides, he’d already eaten the Dunkin’ Donut I’d brought him.

  “No. I wanted to let you know about a threat I think I got last night.”

  “More phone calls? Every time you get involved in one of these murder cases, you start getting phone calls. J. Edgar Hoover wouldn’t agree to check your phone records as often as I have.”

  “True, but which of you would look better in a pink chiffon dress?”

  “You’re right,” Barry said. “I don’t have the legs for it. So who’s calling now?”

  “No phone calls,” I told him, and explained about the three men on the sidewalk last night. His eyes widened at the key moment.

  “Mr. Shapiro?” he asked. “That’s not good.”

  When people hear you
’re from New Jersey, they automatically assume you know everyone in Organized Crime. The fact is, I’d never even met anyone who claimed to know anyone in Organized Crime, but I’d heard about Mr. Shapiro.

  I looked at Barry. “You mean there really is a Mr. Shapiro? I always assumed he was a myth, like the Jersey Devil and compassionate conservatism.”

  He shook his head. “There really is a Mr. Shapiro, all right. And if he’s actually the one who sent these guys, you’re on to something much larger than you thought, in which case, you want off this one post haste.”

  Hyman Shapiro was reputed to be the last of the Jewish gangsters operating on the East Coast. He had begun long ago, with Bugsy Siegel and Legs Diamond, and for all I know, Al “The Knish” Rabinowitz. At one time, he supposedly owned the biggest numbers operation in New Jersey, was active in illegal drugs and prostitution, and ran the entire dry cleaning industry in the tri-state area.

  They also said he was directly connected to at least 28 murders over the years, but had never been arrested for so much as jaywalking. He was so well insulated that people said his wardrobe came courtesy of Owens-Corning.

  “Maybe I do want out,” I told Barry. “I didn’t sign up to butt heads with Mr. Shapiro. But in the meantime, do I have to worry?”

  “They warned you. If you heed the warning, seems to me they’ll leave you alone.”

  “So the chief of police is telling me to give in to the threats of likely felons,” I said.

  “No, your friend Barry is telling you to give in to the threats of likely felons,” he answered. “The chief of police is telling you to be very, very cautious until you’re sure they’re not after you anymore.”

  I was about to comment on the comfort level I’d achieved from his advice, but was interrupted by a knock on Barry’s office door. Without waiting for Barry to react, Detective Lieutenant Gerald Westbrook opened the door and stuffed himself through.

  “A lot of people would expect a ‘come in’ or something before they barged into their boss’ office,” Barry told Westbrook.