“My dog, what are you going to do with him?”
When they got down to Peter’s truck, the caravan of cops stopped. Weapons drawn, they fanned out in a circle. The bright lights illuminated the truck, and the command to exit the vehicle with hands in the air crackled through the loudspeaker.
“There’s nobody in there,” Peter said.
“Shut up.”
The responders closing in on the truck were armed to the teeth. They captured it and tore open the front doors.
“Clear,” came the response. “Got his wallet and ID. It’s Peter Russo.”
One of the other cops who knew Peter from fishing down by the ferry, Billy O’Leary, came up to the back window of the patrol car. “Man, you are in deep kimchee,” he said. “Is that Brutus back there?” Peter nodded.
“Hey,” O’Leary yelled out. “I’m handling the dog. Calling Animal Control right now.”
“That fucking dog is low priority.”
“OK—listen,” O’Leary said into his cellphone. “We’ve got a clusterfuck up here at the fuel cell. We need you to handle an agitated pit bull tied up to a tree. It belongs to the suspect.”
“Get over here,” the officer in charge yelled.
“What?” O’Leary talked quickly on his phone as he looked at Peter. “Judgment call. Don’t shoot the dog unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
CHAPTER 4
AT THE STATION, PETER WAS FINGERPRINTED, photographed, swabbed, and booked. They left him in his bloody and mud-sodden clothes. His injured hand pulsated and swelled gruesomely while the cops conferred. Peter decided against playing the card of asking to see his buddy, Sergeant John Tomassi. If he was in the station, Tomassi would make his way over soon enough.
Finally, the senior arresting officer took him to the interrogation room, read him his rights again and sat him down.
“I want my lawyer,” Peter said. An EMT tried to clean his wound but wasn’t happy about the bleeding.
“You should’ve taken him to the ER for stitches,” she said. “I don’t know if these butterfly bandages will hold the edges together.” Nobody appeared too concerned.
“Make your call, Russo.” Trying to hold the phone in his left hand and dial with his right, he kept dropping the phone and messing up the numbers. His right hand was as useful as a brick. Finally, he got through to Lori Welles, his good friend who happened to be a very successful local attorney.
“Lori,” Peter said. “Wake up, this is urgent.”
Lori mumbled something incoherent, so Peter spoke louder. “It’s me, Peter Russo.”
“Hello? Peter,” she said, in a voice muffled with sleep. “Why are you calling me this late?”
“Lori, get over to the Bridgeville police station as fast as you can. I’ve been arrested and there’s a wall of shit coming at me. They’re going to shoot Brutus—you’ve got to save him.”
“Don’t say another word to anyone, Peter.” Lori cleared her throat and pushed her sleeping lover in the back. “I’m on my way. Who’s going to shoot Brutus?” Her groggy partner rolled over to the far edge of the king-sized bed, out of Lori ‘s reach.
“Brutus is tied to a tree up at the fuel cell on Maple Street, and he’s going bananas. Animal Control could kill him. You gotta call Jeff and get Marti in on this. Brutus needs all the help he can get.”
Lori hung up and reached for Martina Dunn, shaking her by the shoulder until she roused. Marti, a tall and athletic wine merchant in West Hadley, did not wake easily. Lori pulled the covers off and showed no mercy as she maneuvered a naked Marti out of bed.
“Goddammit,” Marti yelled, rolling onto her back and rubbing her eyes.
“For fuck’s sake, Marti. Wake up! I need you.” Lori’s tension rose as she got Marti up to speed. “Peter’s in trouble, and Brutus is about to be shot by Animal Control. I’ll go handle Peter, but I really need you to pull the stops out for Brutus.”
“Lor, breathe. Teamwork, babe.” Marti hugged her hard. “I’ll call my ex.”
They each threw on sweats, grabbed their cell phones and jumped into their respective cars. Lori roared down the road while Marti, driving wildly through the dark as she tried to focus, regretted her generous nightcap of French brandy when she barely missed a galloping deer.
Nobody worked a phone like Marti. She could chew out vendors and purr to customers simultaneously. She jumped into action, calling her old girlfriend, the one woman on the planet who could keep Brutus alive. Her ex not only wrote for the Hatfield Gazette, the biggest paper in the area, but she loved animals passionately—actually more than people. Plus, her brother ran the West Hadley Public Works Department.
“You want me to do what?”
“Two things, really.” Marti tamped down her rapid-fire speech, courtesy of her New Jersey upbringing, to a slower pace. “First, threaten Bridgeville’s mayor you’ll publish all the dirt you have on him unless he makes Brutus priority number one.”
“Peter’s Brutus?”
“Yes—haven’t you been listening to anything I said?”
“Yeah, but it’s two in the morning and I was having a great dream about an orgy. Everyone wanted a piece of me.”
Marti heard loud yawning that sounded halfway to snoring. “Wake up, come on.”
“OK, ok. What’s the second thing? Wait, don’t tell me. Call my brother and get one of his Animal Control people over there, right?”
“Exactly. Please, please.”
“You owe me, bitch.”
No sooner had Marti hung up than Bridgeville’s mayor learned that allegations of campaign irregularities would be made public unless he called Animal Control and instructed them to let West Hadley take the lead in dealing with Brutus.
Marti waited anxiously, driving through the humid night and clutching her phone. When the call came through, Marti answered it in a nanosecond.
“Talk to me.”
“Ok, listen. My brother got Animal Control to send an officer who’s trained in something called non-lethal animal subjugation. Now, there’s a mouthful. And Bridgeville’s gonna let West Hadley do their non-lethal thing.”
“You’re the best—I really owe you, babe. How about a bottle of primo wine?”
“Sure, a bottle of 2015 Chateau Lafite Rothschild and we’re close to even. Maybe throw in your fine self for old time’s sake.”
“What?” Marti relaxed her death grip on the phone. “You’ll like the 2015 Mouton Rothschild better. It’s just like me—finesse and power.”
“Tramp.”
“Ha. Trust me, put it away for twenty years and drink it for a great occasion. Then you’ll thank me.”
Marti and her ex made kissing sounds before they hung up. Lori texted that Jeff was on his way and would meet her in the parking lot.
When Marti eased into the space next to Jeff’s pickup, he ran over in a panic. “Nobody’s telling me what’s what with Pete or why Brutus is a dead man walking!”
Marti calmed him down as they waited for Animal Control from Bridgeville and West Hadley. Explaining the situation as best she could somehow upset Jeff even more.
“I’m gonna kill Pete. And, they’re gonna try non-lethal subjugation? The fuck does that mean?” Jeff seethed as he handed her his spare flashlight.
“Look, I don’t know, either. I think there’s a dart gun. I mean, how hard could it be to shoot a dart into Brutus? He’s huge.”
The West Hadley and Bridgeville Animal Control trucks arrived back to back. It became immediately obvious that neither town’s personnel wanted to see the other there.
“I got the OK from the chief to let this shitshow happen for exactly five minutes,” the Bridgeville Animal Control officer said. “And you do know it’s the middle of the night, and I’m not getting overtime.”
“Back off. It’s our technology,” the West Hadley guy said, brandishing the gun. “I’ve got three tranquilizer darts. One should be plenty.”
Two Bridgeville cops hiked through the woods with the
tense group to the approximate area where Brutus remained tied to a tree.
“Call out to him, Jeff,” Marti urged. “He knows your voice.”
“Brutus, buddy. Where are you?” Jeff searched unsuccessfully in his pockets for a dog treat. Luckily, one of the cops had some Snausages in his car, meant for his own pup. He ran back to get them while the group waited.
Brutus barked savagely, making him easy to locate with the powerful flashlights they all clutched.
“Healthy set of lungs on that dog.”
The cop with the Snausages returned breathlessly and nudged Jeff to holler for Brutus.
“This baby,” the West Hadley officer said, “is a shoo-in at ten yards.”
“So, you’ve done this before?” Marti, Jeff and Snausage cop voiced this concern simultaneously.
“Uh, no, not really.”
“What does that mean?” Marti ventured.
“We just got it, but I watched the training video a couple times. No worries.” The West Hadley officer caressed his new toy.
Marti, Jeff and Snausage cop exchanged worried looks. The other cop yawned and scratched his balls. The Bridgeville Animal guy spat and kicked the ground in disgust.
“OK, this is how it’s gonna go,” West Hadley said. “You,” nodding towards Snausage cop, “throw the treat close to him. When he bends down to get it, I’ll shoot the dart. Piece of cake.”
The first attempt was wide of the mark. Brutus retrieved the Snausage too quickly.
The second attempt hit the tree. The Bridgeville Animal guy threw his hands up in anger and stomped away.
“Hey, can I see that gun?” Officer Snausage examined it carefully. “How about that dart?”
“Look folks, this is fucked up.” Jeff’s voice bristled with frustration and anger. “We’ve got exactly one dart and one Snausage left. This is it—one and done, right, Officer Piece of Cake?”
“Bite me.”
“You first. You better watch your tone, son.”
Officer Snausage whirled into action. He threw the Snausage and fired the dart into Brutus’s flank. After a few seconds of yelping confusion, Brutus crashed to the ground.
“Hey, man. Not cool,” West Hadley protested.
“Thank God,” Marti shouted.
“Great shot.” The other Bridgeville cop high-fived Snausage cop.
Jeff pumped his arms in the air. “You’re my man.”
“You’re not my type, Russo,” Officer Snausage said, puffed up with pride. Then he grinned and accepted a hearty fist bump.
CHAPTER 5
SERGEANT JOHN TOMASSI PEERED OVER HIS BIFOCALS at Peter, his boyhood chum since they were fat boys playing side by side on the offensive line in Mighty Mites football forty-five years ago. Peter stood before him, disheveled, muddy, bloody, and arrested.
“What the fuck, Russo?” Tomassi’s fearsome unibrow amplified his frown. His permanent five o’clock shadow seemed to darken as if to reflect his extreme irritation at Peter’s arrest at the Zenergy fuel cell facility. “I got one hour left in my shift, and now I gotta deal with you getting arrested on a goddamn boatload of charges.”
“So, tell you what, John, just let me go.” Peter’s stocky build and graying dark hair matched Tomassi’s. He shrugged as Tomassi took his glasses off with one hand and dramatically massaged the bridge of his nose with the other. “Just sayin’ since of all the paperwork, it might be easier.” He stared straight into Tomassi’s bloodshot eyes, hoping to see some softening, a flicker of their long friendship.
“No can do. Zenergy’s got weight; they even got departments in the area to put out an alert and a BOLO about suspicious activity near their facility. Asshole,” he snorted at Peter.
“Really? Since when do they get to dictate what cops should be on the lookout for? Unbelievable.” Peter shifted uneasily on the ugly linoleum floor, finally sitting down in an uncomfortable plastic chair.
“You’re going to enjoy a nice long Memorial Day weekend here on account of all the courts being closed until Tuesday.” Tomassi popped a breath mint and leafed through his notepad. “Your brother called. Not to alarm you or anything, but evidently pit bulls like Brutus can’t tolerate the drug in the tranquilizer dart they shot him with.”
“Shit.” Peter picked at the blood-soaked bandage on his hand before wiping away a tear that trickled down his cheek. “Why did your guys have to go in so heavy? Locked and loaded ‘cause of me and Brutus? They could’ve killed us.”
“What don’t you get? You just had to be a wise-ass, with your flowers and bushes. I’m not even gonna talk about the attack on Lou Stulow, the security guard.” Seeing Peter shake his head no, Tomassi held up his calloused hand. “Save it for your lawyer. Now, back to someone I actually care about—Brutus. Yeah, he’s gonna stay another day in the animal hospital. Jeff also said he wouldn’t be coming to visit you until he could feel enough brotherly love not to freaking strangle you.” Tomassi checked his watch. “I’m outta here in five. Lemme give you a piece of advice: zip it and make like a boy scout from here on in.” He patted Peter gruffly on the back and then swatted him hard in the head with his notepad.
“Thanks.”
“De nada. Lori handling it?”
“What?”
“You’re deaf and stupid? I might stop by on Memorial Day with one of Donna’s amazing chili hot dogs if you play your cards right.” Tomassi left the room with all the grace of a wounded hippo, slamming the door behind him.
Lori Welles, forty-five and proudly out for basically her entire life, entered the room with her dark hair pulled up in a top-knot like a Japanese samurai. Beautiful, even at that hour and without make-up, she looked royally peeved.
“I want to slap you. And I want to cut open your head to see if you have an actual brain in there. But, then I might get arrested, and that would be about as useful here as a cat at a dog show.”
“I can’t pay you, Lor. I’ve got like a negative balance. Maybe just get me through the weekend and I’ll wing it from there. Or we can barter, right?”
Peter’s bank account, never flush, had shriveled to an all-time low. None of his friends had any spare change, either. That is, none except for Carmen Fiori, who ran her family’s apple orchard like Warren Buffet. But when Carmen dumped him, she made it very clear that he was never to darken her doorstep.
“Don’t worry about that now,” Lori said. “Let’s sort through everything and get the assault charge thrown out. Obviously, it’s circumstantial bullshit. But I’m swamped with work, literally up to my neck. We gotta get you out of here. I need someone to help out.”
“OK, good. But just not Vic Baldini, I’m begging you. I know you use him sometimes, but anyone else. The shitty late-night commercials, the bad comb-over …
“Peter could have listed a million reasons, but Lori honed in on his major reservation.
“And he’s Carmen’s ex brother-in-law, yadda, yadda. Beggars can’t be choosers. If I can get him to help, he’s on the case.”
“Oy.”
“He’s a good tactician with a nose for the kill. Just close your eyes when you talk to him if you’re such a priss. Maybe he’ll figure out how to get you off for being mentally deficient.”
“I thought you were on my side. What’s this, tough love?”
“You shouldn’t have posted so much trash-talking about Zenergy on Facebook. Combine it with Saunders Construction, and you know I mean the history Brock has with your family. By the way, does Jeff know that Saunders is back in the game in Bridgeville? I hope to God I won’t have to defend him, too, once he finds out.” She rubbed her eyes, and Peter saw how sleepy she looked.
“You’re working too hard. Sorry to add more to your plate.”
“You’re like family. I’d be insulted if you called anyone else. But, everything I just said plus the guard getting assaulted while you were up there recreating the Garden of Eden makes you look bad. Really bad.”
Peter swatted away the comment. “Oh, so it’s
OK for Zenergy to poison our air and water? That assault on the guard wasn’t me, and they’re morons if they think I did it. He’s gonna be OK, right?’
Lori shrugged. “Hope so. It’s a messy head wound, and they can be tricky.”
“They better hurry with the blood tests from my clothes and everything. It’s my own blood for Chrissake. I wanna get home to Brutus, the poor guy. And my hand hurts like hell.” He held it up to show her.
“Boo-hoo. Suck it up cupcake. Here’s a smooch to make it better.’ Lori smiled and blew him a kiss.
CHAPTER 6
AFTER LORI TOOK OFF, A GUARD ESCORTED PETER BACK to his cell. He looked around to see if he had company at chez Bridgeville PD. “Anyone else here?”
“Yo, Pops,” a young man called out. “What you here for?”
Peter saw a tattooed set of arms sticking through the bars of the cell near him. “Same as you—nothing.”
The young man laughed and called out to the cell next to him, “Hey, el Viejo—aight!”
“Hey, Pops,” another young male voice said. “Over here. You ever coach a Little League team in Hatfield?”
Peter tried to get a closer look at the young men, especially the one who asked about baseball. Short, muscular and just as tatted out, he had sleek dark hair cut in an elaborate buzz but Peter didn’t recognize him.
“I coached Little League with the Big Brothers program in Hatfield about ten or so years ago,” he said, trying to retrieve this buried memory. “Help me here; did you play on that team?”
“Man, I knew I remembered you!” The young man crouched into a baseball hitting stance. “You always told me to be ‘baseball ready’ and I never forget a voice. You got old, Coach.”
Peter chuckled. “You could say that again. What else do you remember? What’s your name?”
“Marco. What the hell you doing here, Coach?
“This is all a misunderstanding. It’ll be settled soon.”
“Ain’t no misunderstanding if you in here with us, Pops, on this fine Memorial Day weekend,” the first guy said, stroking his black knife-edged goatee. “Hey, I’m Paco.”
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