by Kelly, Diane
Dale Grigsby had inherited Eastside Arms from a spinster aunt years ago and ran the place from the lower floor of Building A. The walls between the three first-floor apartments had been knocked out and the space remodeled into a combination office and living space. Dale lived in relative luxury, the only one at the complex with two bedrooms and a separate living area.
I made a fist and, though I was tempted to put it through the door, merely banged on it instead. Bam! Bam! Bam!
A voice came from within: “Hold your horses. I’m comin’.”
A few seconds later the door opened. Grigsby stood there wearing a stained pair of elastic-waist shorts and a T-shirt not quite long enough to cover his paunchy belly. At least three inches of pasty, pimpled gut was visible. His bulbous nose twitched, the bristly hairs inside reaching out like tentacles as his nostrils flared. “That you giving off that funky smell?”
I didn’t bother to explain that Brigit had doused me with dog-scented pool water. “The air-conditioning is out in Building B again.”
“I know,” Grigsby said, lifting a chin to indicate the roof. “We’re working on it.”
I glanced back at my building, noting a guy in coveralls up on top fooling around with the enormous HVAC unit.
“Working on it’s not good enough,” I said, turning back to the manager. This was the third time the air-conditioning had gone out this month. The unit must have been twenty years old or more. “It n-needs to be replaced.”
The rust on the unit was visible from the ground and the system gave off a nerve-jarring rattle every time it cycled on.
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Grigsby snapped. Such professional service, no? “He’ll get it fixed. And remember, you’re getting free cable.”
Free cable. That was Grigsby’s answer to any complaint. The roof could cave in and he’d suggest any complaint was rendered moot by the free cable.
I glanced down at the baton on my hip. Seemed a shame I couldn’t use it to persuade Grigsby to replace the AC. One solid whack to his pudgy ass—swish-swish-whap!—and he’d surely be convinced.
“I’ve got a police dog living with me now,” I told him. “She’s got to have cool air. Dogs can’t sweat, you know.”
He scowled. “I made an exception, letting you have a pet. You should be thanking me and instead you’re complaining.”
I made no attempt to hide my eye roll. “The dog isn’t my pet. She’s my partner.”
He scratched at his exposed belly. “She’s still a dog. I did you a big favor by letting her stay here.”
Some favor. I didn’t want the damn dog in the first place!
I gave up the debate at that point, knowing further efforts would be futile. When Grigsby ran out of excuses, he’d shrug and say, You get what you pay for. If we tenants wanted peace and quiet, hot water for our showers, or AC units capable of cooling below eighty-four degrees, we could go on down the street and pay five times as much in rent.
I didn’t bother bidding the jerk any form of adieu but merely turned, collected the cage from my car, and stormed back up to my place.
FIVE
NEW DIGS
Brigit
Brigit ate three of the crunchy bones, then hid the others in the corners of the tiny room for later. She would’ve liked some water, but her new partner hadn’t left her any. Didn’t that woman know how to take care of a dog?
Brigit sniffed around the edges of the lower kitchen cabinets, her nose picking up scents she translated into a mental inventory. Whole-grain bread. Roasted almonds. Granola cereal. No cookies or potato chips. She sniffed the seal around the refrigerator next. No hot dogs. No ham. No baloney. Only fruits, vegetables, and soy milk. What kind of fresh hell was this?
The dog moved along the wall, snuffling her way past the television and stack after stack of books. She reached the closed door of the bathroom, noting the unpleasant scents of lavender and jasmine. Why humans wanted to smell like flowers was beyond Brigit. She’d take the natural smell of a rotting rat corpse over lilacs any day.
She continued on until she reached the closet. Though the door was closed, Brigit could tell exactly what was inside. Shoes. And lots of ’em.
Maybe this new partnership wouldn’t be so bad after all.…
SIX
IT’S NOT ROCKET SCIENCE
The Rattler
Only a few people meandered around the small hobby shop, most of them men, either alone or with their young sons in tow. Amazing any of these nerds had managed to get laid.
The Rattler headed past the model trains to the rocket section near the back. Though no security cameras were visible, he was careful to keep his head down just in case. The San Francisco Giants baseball cap, mirrored sunglasses, and loose-fitting long-sleeved button-down shirt would go far in making identification difficult. Still, one could never be too careful, especially when one would soon be the subject of a manhunt.
Of course he had to get his ducks in a row first. Buying supplies was duck one.
He selected the largest-model rocket the store offered, a bright-red one nearly four feet tall. Next, he gathered up a half dozen of the F50-4T 29mm engines, some of the most powerful on the market. The engines contained ammonium perchlorate, or APCP, a solid fuel mixture that acted as a propellant and could send the rocket up to two thousand feet into the air.
But it wasn’t the rocket that he planned to propel. Oh, no. He had much more creative uses for these little engines that could.
These little engines that would.
Atlanta may have burned back when the Confederacy’s Rebel army had fought to maintain their exploitative economy, to hold on to their precious cotton plantations and their elitist ways of thinking, their racism and arrogance and riches. But soon a new southern rebel would arise, a solitary, righteous rebel who would set this fucked-up world straight.
He waited on a nearby aisle, pretending to look over the selection of remote-control airplanes, until there was no line at the register where a teenage boy was working. A sixteen-year-old would likely be less suspicious and less observant than the older man working the second register, especially a geeky boy like this one wearing the Yoda T-shirt. An idiot must be he is.
The Rattler forced his lips into a smile and stepped up to the counter, quietly laying his purchases on the countertop.
The boy picked up the rocket in both hands and looked it up and down. “Wow, this is a big one.”
The Rattler knew it would be a mistake to talk, yet some type of audible response was called for. To remain silent would be odd and awkward. He forced a grunt of agreement. “Mm-hm.”
The boy rang up the engines and put them into the bag with the rocket. “That’ll be three hundred eighty-nine dollars and sixty-seven cents.”
The Rattler pulled a stack of twenty-dollar bills from his wallet. He’d carefully added up the total earlier after looking at prices on the store’s Web site so he’d know exactly how much cash to have ready. He didn’t want to be in the store any longer than possible or to make a spectacle out of counting the cash.
Unfortunately, the boy didn’t share the Rattler’s concerns. After the teenager took the stack, he counted through the bills, laying each twenty on the counter. “Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty—” The kid might as well be yelling, Hey, everyone! Look at all this cash!
It took everything in the Rattler not to reach across the counter and grab the kid by the throat. Dumb little shit. Couldn’t he count in his head? What did they teach in public schools?
In his peripheral vision, the Rattler saw the older man at the other register glance over. Luckily, a customer in a scoutmaster’s uniform stepped up to the old man’s register and inquired about dragsters, drawing the man’s attention away.
The boy finally finished counting. “Three-hundred-eighty. Four hundred.”
The kid slid the bills into his register’s till, then counted out the change. He handed the change to the Rattler and ripped the paper receipt tape from the regis
ter. “Would you like the receipt in the bag?”
Shove it up your ass for all I care, the man thought. But he said, “Sure.”
He took his bag and headed out of the store, fighting the urge to throw his head back and laugh.
Soon they would learn.
Soon he would have them trained.
SEVEN
BEDTIME FOR BRIGIT
Megan
When I opened the apartment door after my futile chat with Grigsby, I was hit not only with the sweltering heat but also with the overpowering stench of wet dog.
Inside, Brigit had finished the treats and was sniffing around the apartment, familiarizing herself with her new home. It wouldn’t take her long. I supposed I could call the small place a studio, but that would sound pretentious. Truth was, it was a minuscule efficiency apartment, barely three hundred square feet. A closet and narrow bathroom were situated on the right wall. The kitchen, which ran along the left wall, consisted of a small fridge, a two-burner stove/oven combo, a stainless-steel sink, and three feet of counter space covered in scratched powder-blue Formica. A coffeepot, toaster, and microwave rested on the counter.
My decorating style could be called minimalist, but such a term would imply the décor was a conscious choice. The fact of the matter was that I had neither the money nor need for much furniture. A card table with a single metal folding chair sat on the rippled linoleum, serving as a dinette set for one. No need for more chairs. I never had friends over, because I had no close friends. My only other furniture was a cheap metal-framed futon with a bright yellow cover and a 17-inch television that sat on an upended plastic milk crate.
Feng shui? No way.
I threw open the vertical windows that flanked my door, as well as the wider window on the back wall, hoping to create a cross breeze that might relieve the heat and the smell. No such luck. Too bad I hadn’t had the foresight to buy an electric fan and some room spray when we’d been at the store earlier.
I settled for rubbing some lavender-scented lotion on my hands and windmilling my arms around in a desperate attempt to freshen the place and create a breeze. All I managed to do was make myself warmer with the exertion.
By then, Brigit had determined that the kitchen linoleum was the coolest place in the apartment to lie down. She’d settled in front of the fridge. I filled her bowl with water, adding a couple of ice cubes from the freezer, and set it down in front of her. She stuck her snout into the bowl and noisily lapped up the water. Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.
I looked down at her. “You could stand to learn some manners.”
Her eyes looked up at me as she continued to drink.
I fixed myself a glass of ice water, too, gulped it down, and walked to the bathroom, where I peeled off my uniform and changed into my black bikini. I left my hair up in the bun, grabbed a towel, and slid my feet into my dollar-store flip-flops.
Leaving the dog inside, I stepped out of my apartment, locking the door behind me. I’d made it down only three steps when Brigit bolted past me. I turned back to see the window screen bent and hanging at an odd angle. A second later it fell to the concrete walkway with a tinny clatter.
I turned my eyes back to Brigit. Stupid dog! She was out of control. What was I going to do? If I couldn’t learn to make her behave, they’d reassign her to another officer and I’d be out of a job.
“Brigit!” I yelled.
She ignored me, continuing down the stairs. Disconcerting, given that she was a potentially deadly weapon and I would be held liable for her behavior.
“Get back here!” I screamed. “Now!”
Again, ignored.
Effing dog.
As I squeezed past him on the steps, my neighbor lit another cigarette and took a deep drag. “That dog don’t listen too good.”
No shit, Sherlock.
Down on the ground now, Brigit turned and looked up at me. She didn’t come back up the steps, but at least she wasn’t running off anymore.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, tamping down my anger and saving it in storage for later use. It might come in handy someday.
I continued down the steps to the gate that surrounded the pool. Rhino had evidently gone inside. I had the place to myself now.
I let Brigit into the fenced area and followed her inside, shutting the gate behind us. Tail wagging, she made her way to the edge of the pool, turning back and woofing softly as if inviting me to join her. She slid into the water more gracefully this time, foregoing the belly flop. After hanging my towel over the fence and sliding out of my flip-flops, I hurried across the hot concrete—“Ow! Ow! Ow!”—and stepped onto the metal ladder, easing myself down into the pool.
The water was a mere four feet at its deepest point and only slightly cooler than the outside air, but I’d take what I could get. I swam back and forth doing the breaststroke while Brigit dog paddled up and down the pool, swimming laps along with me.
I had to admit, it was nice to have company for a change, even if it was furry, four-legged company. Thanks to my childhood stutter and the resulting teasing, I’d learned early on to be very careful in choosing my words and even more careful in choosing my friends, which meant I spent a lot of time alone. While the other kids had played tag at recess, I’d sit by myself under a tree with only a book from the school library to keep me company. Although I sometimes had groups to hang with—the kids from church when I was young, the band geeks in high school, the girls from my dorm in college—I’d always been the quiet tagalong on the fringes, never part of the core clique. I’d never been close to anyone in particular, never had a BFF, a bestie …
And you know what?
I’d been just fine.
My experiences had taught me to be self-reliant and resourceful. Good traits for a cop. Besides, I’d learned lots of things from all the books I read. I could name more than twenty of Japan’s six-thousand-plus islands, quote the entirety of “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe, and tell you all you’d ever want to know about Emily Morgan, otherwise known as the “Yellow Rose of Texas,” a young mulatto slave woman who was captured by Mexican general Santa Anna and distracted him sexually while Sam Houston’s army moved in to defeat the Mexicans in the battle of San Jacinto. If Santa Anna had kept it in his pantalones, the southern border of the United States might be the Red River rather than the Rio Grande.
Half an hour later, the AC repairman climbed down from the roof and went to Grigsby’s door. He held out a clipboard for the manager to sign and accepted a check from him. Looked like the air-conditioning was working again, at least for the time being. We tenants could only hope our luck would hold out and the unit would keep chugging away until the outdoor temperatures cooled off in October.
When we finished our swim, Brigit followed me back up the stairs. I retrieved the bent screen from the walkway and wrestled it back into place in the aluminum frame. Inside, I closed the windows so the dog wouldn’t be able to escape again and cranked the AC down to sixty.
I pointed a finger at Brigit. “Don’t eat my couch while I’m in the bathroom.”
She cocked her head and wagged her tail, looking contrite. Almost cute, even. Reflexively, I ruffled her head. Oh, God. Was I being sucked in by this mischievous beast?
Noting how shiny Brigit’s hair looked, I retrieved her flea shampoo from the bag the other K-9 handler had given me. The bottle contained a creamy peach-colored solution and promised a shiny, well-conditioned coat that will make your dog the envy of the pack! Why not give it a try myself? Besides, given the sleazy people I dealt with every day, it couldn’t hurt to have some protection from parasites.
I stripped out of my bathing suit and took a cold shower, though even the cold water was lukewarm in this heat. Somewhat refreshed, I left my hair wet. Not only would it help keep me cool, there was no way in hell I’d crank up a blow-dryer in this heat. I wrapped the towel around me, tucking the end under at the chest to hold it in place, and stepped out of the bathroom. A rush sounded in the ducts ov
erhead and a burst of cool air gushed from the vent. I stood under it and raised my hands in the air. “Hallelujah!”
Brigit barked as if in agreement: Woof!
After slipping into panties, a tank top, and a pair of knit shorts, I went to the kitchen. Bridget stood on the linoleum crunching on dog food that poured out of a hole she’d torn in the side of the bag while I was in the shower.
“Bad dog! Look at the mess you’ve made.” I scooped what kibble I could into her metal food bowl, taped the hole in the bag closed with duct tape, and shoved the bag of food into the cabinet under the sink.
I opened the fridge, hoping to scrounge up some dinner that didn’t have to be cooked. Even though the AC was back on, it had only managed to cool the place down to eighty-five degrees so far. The last thing I wanted to do was turn on my oven. My choices were fruit, bagged arugula salad, or granola cereal with soy milk. As you’ve probably guessed, I’m a bit of a health nut. To stay safe as a cop it was important to keep yourself in shape. Especially for a female officer. Who knew when I might have to outrun a crazed wife beater wielding a hunting knife? Eating well made staying in shape easier, though I admit to an occasional fall off the wagon for raspberry sorbet. Everybody deserves one guilty pleasure. Am I right?
Sitting on the couch with my granola and the remote, I clicked the television on. Normally, I liked to watch the History or Discovery Channel, programs that were both entertaining and educational. One can never be too smart, after all. But tonight, as I scrolled through the stations, Brigit gave a bark when Animal Planet came up. Finding Bigfoot was on, the sound of wolves baying in the background drawing her attention to the set.
I conceded. “Okay, fine. You can watch this show. But if anyone wants to find an oversized, hairy beast, all they need to do is visit this apartment.”