by J. L. Salter
Or — another intriguing possibility — maybe the judge had overruled Vanessa's alternative. She had probably recommended sending me to the county dump to re-stack the nastiest garbage from one reeking pile to another. Of course, knowing her even as little as I did, I figured she could just as easily have recommended a firing squad for my alleged offenses.
"That Edwards character said you're the acting supervisor out here. He was kidding, right?"
I looked Hazzard up and down like a gunnery sergeant would assess a trembling Parris Island recruit. "I'm holding the clipboard." This could be a gratifying community service after all.
"Whatever. So lemme see that list." Hazzard actually reached for it.
"No way, José. Edwards entrusted this to me and gave me the complete detailed briefing." I was lying like a discontinued carpet sample. "He's holding me accountable to keep you straight." It was difficult not to smile.
Hazzard shook his head. "I'd have been better off on the back of a garbage truck. At least they take a long break at the dump and eat stale donuts." He slumped to a nearby chair and seemed to look about the room for pastry. "So what's my half of the list?"
Hmm. I wished there had been more time to study it. "Well, basically you're responsible for cleaning out the cages, flushing and filling the water troughs, scooping out the chow…" I flipped over the top sheet. "And I'll cover your other duties after you get through with that part." I waved my free hand toward the kennels at the rear of the complex.
He eyed me narrowly. "And what are you going to be doing?"
"Office stuff, inside duties. Administrative, you know." I sneaked another look at the list. "Plus, I administer any medicine needed and bathe the new animal brought in last night."
"Oh. Okay." Hazzard grinned slightly. Made me think he knew something I didn't know. He licked his lips. "You suppose we have time for a quick coffee before we serve our community?"
I looked at the wall clock and nodded.
"You want me to make it?"
"No, that's one of the inside office responsibilities." Actually I was afraid he'd poison it. "I'll make the coffee. You can start with the water troughs in each bank of cages. Coffee ought to be done by the time you finish the cat water." I was only partly guessing that felines were separated from canines. Seems logical.
As Hazzard dealt with the water outside, I focused on the coffee-maker. Normally coffee and filters would be near the machine itself. Nope. Not in this twenty-first century animal shelter. Coffee supplies were across the office next to a stack of dog and cat books. I had opened nearly every cabinet, including one with a wicked-looking stun dart device, before I found what I needed. Half a pot should be sufficient.
About ten minutes later, Hazzard came back in. His trousers were wet from the shins down. How much trouble could it have been to flush three troughs?
"Coffee's nearly ready."
He nodded and sat, then dabbed at his pants with a wad of paper towels from the restroom.
The floor of the outer office was also concrete and rather too slippery for my preference. I made a mental note to steer clear of the spot where Hazzard's britches dripped water. When he stood to get more towels, I pulled three out of his pile and flattened them upon the small pools.
I poured two cups of coffee and recalled that he took his black. Looked for the pink sweetener packets but only found sugar, so I stirred half a teaspoon into mine. I watched as Hazzard sipped from his white foam cup.
Ryan Hazzard had seemed unusually calm both times I'd seen him so far. I figured anybody supposedly wanted for murder somewhere would be antsy, maybe even jumpy. Not this buccaneer. And with all those lascivious rumors floating around, wouldn't he be eager to explain himself? Uh, no. Apparently not at all. Hazzard seemed at ease in the back of a squad car, in a booth at the Dairy Barne, in his truck driving me home, and in Saturday work clothes at the animal shelter. I wondered if I'd ever feel that comfortable. He must have realized I was scrutinizing and met my eyes. I tried to hold his gaze, but turned away. You can't win staring contests with pirates.
"So, you ready to get started again?" He rose and stood decidedly near my chair. "What's next?"
His waist was about at my eye level. "Uh, well I guess while you put out their food, I'll go through the log-in sheets to see which animal was processed yesterday that's supposed to be washed or dipped, or whatever."
"Does your magic clipboard say how much food they get?" His thumb pointed toward the compound. "Or do I just toss a handful in every cage?"
"Small amount for the cats and little dogs, two handfuls for the big dogs. Just guess on the others." What a faker! I couldn't believe I pretended to know what I was doing. Why did I think it was important to have the upper hand? Or do I even have it?
Hazzard shrugged and grinned. Then he tossed his coffee cup and exited toward the compound. "Just guess on the middle-sized dogs?" He shook his head as he disappeared from my view when the heavy door finally closed.
I went out to the customer area to see what kind of records they kept. There were two sign-in sheets: incoming and outgoing. Outgoing had names of people — presumably those who'd adopted animals — along with the cage their new pet came from and very general descriptions, like, "dog, little, brown". The Incoming sheet had a combination of picked-up strays — evidently from the vehicle patrol team — and a few other animals which had presumably been brought in by ordinary citizens. Some entries indicated cage numbers but others did not. I wondered if those with no numbers had been in such poor condition that they were immediately euthanized.
The last entry on the incoming sheet was the pick-up of a "dog, big, mixed" and indicated cage number C-Thirteen. Must be our wash dog.
Chapter Seventeen
I returned to the outer office at the moment Hazzard entered from the compound. He looked sweaty so the outside temperature had evidently risen a bit.
"Food all situated?"
He nodded and sat with an audible output of breath. "Those critters are starving. Good thing that food bin lid is latched down."
"Did you see the washing station out there?"
"Uh, yeah." He pointed. "Up next to this wall… left of the door." He wiped sweat from his brow and combed his thick black hair with his fingers. "So, who's our victim?"
"C-Thirteen."
He closed his eyes tightly as though he was scanning an internal chart. "Uh, you might want to come take a look first."
"What do you mean? Just bring it over to the wash station and let's get this over with." Kristen is testy today.
"You sure you don't want to have a look? I mean, maybe Number Thirteen is clean enough."
I could tell he didn't want to wash Thirteen, but I assumed Hazzard was just trying to keep me off balance, so I pressed ahead. "Edwards said the last pick-up needed a bath, and the last entry is C-Thirteen, so Thirteen gets a bath. What's the big deal?"
"Uh, nothing. Okay, I'll bring him over." Hazzard grabbed two stout leather leashes from a set of hooks near the rear door.
Odd to take two. I followed him outside but couldn't see clearly because the sun shone directly in my face. Then I heard a deep bellow which sounded like a mountain lion on steroids. Next, I heard a cage door slam open against the front of the pen. Then sounds which reminded me of Tarzan wrestling a rhino.
"Hold still!" That was the loudest exhortation I'd ever heard from Hazzard.
I hurried toward the commotion and shaded my eyes from the sun just in time to observe Hazzard being partly dragged from the cage by the biggest, dirtiest, shaggiest canine I'd ever seen in real life. Well, it wasn't fair to say Thirteen actually dragged a grown man any significant distance, but my colleague was flat on the concrete with both feet hooked inside the cage doorway.
"What is that?" The horror must have shown in my face.
"Kris, meet Thirteen." Ryan gasped for breath. "And I don't know how long I can hold him."
I hustled over and grabbed one of the heavy leather straps. I clutched
for dear life while Hazzard got back to his feet. That behemoth had to be nearly two-hundred-forty pounds and was every bit of three feet high at the shoulder. "They keep ponies here? What is this?"
"You ever see that movie called Beethoven?" Hazzard huffed and puffed as he gained a firmer grip on his strap.
I hadn't.
"It's gotta be a Saint Bernard, or at least ninety per cent."
I tried to picture Thirteen with a miniature brandy keg below his neck. Nope. "I bet the other ten per cent is buffalo."
"Well, whatever he is, we both better hold on tight." Hazzard gripped his strap. "If he gets one of us alone, no telling how far he can drag us."
Fortunately Thirteen seemed fairly docile for the time being. But the thought of him on the run sent chills through me.
Clearly winded, Ryan turned and asked, "You still want to bathe this monster?"
It was one of those moments people look back upon later and wonder, "what was I thinking?" but at the time usually bull their way through whatever. Why? Just because they feel something's at stake. I wasn't sure what was at stake, however. It seemed to be about me jockeying for some sort of leverage with the guy who'd rescued me. I hadn't liked being the damsel in distress. Though I was glad he'd been there to assist, perhaps I felt some need to establish that sometimes I have control of my circumstances. To anyone observing what next occurred, they'd wonder, "what is she thinking?" I realized Hazzard's question still hung in the air. "Edwards said to bathe the last pick-up. So Thirteen gets a bath."
About the time Hazzard momentarily loosened his grip to wrap the strap around his fist, Thirteen apparently sniffed out the location of the central food bin. Those two scoops of chow served earlier must have seemed like a mere appetizer to that massive creature. The direction ascertained, Thirteen took off at a trot and nearly yanked my arm out of its socket. Hazzard's shoulder was obviously a lot stronger, but the sudden movement caught him by surprise and he nearly went down again.
With both of us applying all the brakes we could manage, we barely did more than slow Thirteen's momentum. He would reach the food bin whether he had two human anchors… or twenty.
"How much do you figure he normally eats?"
"A whole lot more than two scoops, Boss."
I figured Hazzard had deliberately complied with my flawed instruction, somehow realizing that Thirteen was the one we'd have to bathe. Perhaps he'd stolen a glance at the log sheet when I was in the restroom. "Well, maybe we can let him gnosh a bit and once he's settled down, it'll be bath time."
"I don't think we have much choice." Hazzard pointed with his chin. "If we don't open that bin, Thirteen's liable to eat right through the hinges."
With seesaw movements that must have resembled a three-way tractor pull, the dog finally got our convoy to the food bin. Until Thirteen reached his front paws on top of the container, I had not realized that giant was over eight feet long from nose to tail. "Open the bin, quick!" I dropped the stout leash. Can't hold this beast any longer.
Hazzard flipped the latch and grabbed a water bucket, which he filled half-way with chow. Then he put the bucket down and we both tried to pull Thirteen off the bin's edge, where he strained to reach the food below.
"Just tell him the chow's in the bucket and get him out of there. Can't you reason with him?"
The look Hazzard gave me! "It's like wrestling a long-horn steer! You think because we're both male that we can communicate across species lines?" He continued to tug on Thirteen's collar. "Edwards left you in charge. If you're Doctor Doolittle today, why don't you talk to this buffalo?"
I wished I could talk that dog down. I wished I'd never seen the inside of an animal shelter and had never even heard of Judge Gunther or Corporal James. I wished I had not been rescued by the new guy in town or fallen asleep in the wooden pen at the armory. I wished I had never gotten suckered into helping with the stinking festival. I wished I had left Verdeville long before Wally the Weasel ever got his lying, thieving hooks in me. I wished.
And then I cried.
Actually, I bawled… and sank into a crouch with my back to the huge bin. Thirteen stopped straining for the chow in the large container and got back down on all fours. He positioned his titanic frame directly in front of me and stared intently. Still sobbing, I could barely speak. "See what you did, Thirteen?"
Obviously shattered by his guilt instinct, Thirteen leaned his massive head quite close, took a few precautionary sniffs, and began licking my face with his twelve-inch tongue. I was so startled, I stopped crying. But then I got scared. I could let a goldfish nibble my finger but I didn't want a carnivorous canine licking my face. There was simply too much of that giant beast to allow his mouth on my flesh! Especially when he was obviously so starved that he'd just dragged two adults to the food vat.
Just when I was about to start screaming, Hazzard yanked the hose from the washing stand and flipped its lever. With icy water on full throttle aimed at Thirteen's hindquarters, the behemoth quickly forgot about licking me. Once Thirteen was distracted, Hazzard got between us and kept the monster away.
After a few moments of confusion in the colossal canine's typically uncomplicated brain, he moseyed over to the bucket of chow and wolfed it down in short order.
Hazzard refilled the bucket, hurriedly slammed shut the food bin lid, and enticed Thirteen back into his cage. Then he rushed back over to me. "I'd say he's had his bath." The pirate was slightly out of breath. "Let's go inside and eat some lunch."
I rose, unsteadily, with a slight shiver. "I just had a bit of a bath myself. Maybe I'll wash my face before we eat."
Chapter Eighteen
My lunch plans were plain and thrifty. I was about to retrieve my peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the car when I heard Hazzard on his phone ordering delivery from the barbecue place. Yum.
"You want anything from the Verdeville Ranch House?" He pressed the cell phone toward his firm chest.
Yeah, I sure did — a double order of pulled pork and a big bowl of baked beans. But I was still upset at Hazzard for trying to disarm me with his handsome smile. In fact, I remained peeved with him in nearly every respect and the only way he could possibly know it was for me to continue bristling. "Uh, no thanks. I've got a sandwich in the car."
Hazzard said something else to the order-taker.
I stood, stretched, and exited through the shelter's front door for the full hour we were allowed. I leaned on the hood of my miniature station wagon and held my face toward the midday sun with eyes closed. Felt good. Out front, it was a bit too breezy for just my long-sleeved shirt, but not cold enough to get my jacket from inside the car.
After about fifteen minutes, the Ranch House vehicle screeched to a halt right next to me.
"Delivery?" A gangly boy, probably in his last year of high school, leaned through his window.
I just nodded my head toward the shelter's front door. The youth trotted inside holding a huge brown paper shopping bag with twine handles. Hazzard must have built up an appetite wrestling Thirteen.
I grabbed my PB&J and nearly collided with the delivery boy as I entered. He leaped into his hatchback and peeled out. I followed the barbecue aroma to the outer office where Hazzard had two complete meals set up.
"Wha…?"
"Relax. I had a two-for-one coupon and you can save your little sandwich 'til later." Hazzard swept his hand toward the other rolling desk chair as though he were head waiter in a ritzy establishment.
This did not fit into my plan of staying aloof and bristly. But the meat and potato salad looked so delicious, I nearly drooled. Plus, Hazzard smiled like he was happy to see me after I'd returned from a long trip somewhere. "Uh, okay, sure. Thanks." I was positive his two-for-one story was bogus, but why would a man lie about coupons? Or, more importantly, if Hazzard would fib about this, what other lies did he harbor?
I sat at the spot he'd cleared. Hazzard held up the sack of buns and I took one. He scooped his own considerable portion of beef a
nd formed a question to me with his eyebrows.
"Oh, no thanks. I'll get my own."
He loaded his own thick paper plate with potato salad, and dove in. But he watched me.
I took a smaller portion of the beef, wishing it was pork, and just a spoonful of potato salad, wishing it was baked beans. Those preferences aside, it was twenty times better than the sandwich I'd brought. But it still bothered me to play Hazzard's game.
He went back to both foam containers for second servings and I loosened up enough to eat another dab of each. But no more bread. Still watching my tummy. "So how much I owe you?"
Ryan waved his hand back and forth. "My treat. Besides, I had a coupon."
"Ranch House only has coupons for vets on Veteran's Day." That should put him back on defense.
Hazzard rolled his eyes. "So I lied." Then he smiled again. "You looked hungry when I called it in, so I thought…"
"I don't want to owe you anything." My icy tone surprised me.
His pause felt like a long time. "Well, pay me back then, but not with money."
Okay, here it is. I'd been braced for something all morning. The big maneuver, where the guy figures he's got a girl primed and announces the next step is take off her britches. I started to sputter.
Hazzard held up his hand. "You'll owe me a dab of barbecue the next time I'm hungry but all I brought was a skinny dry sandwich."
Humph. I didn't want to owe him even that much, but it was considerably less than I thought he was angling for. "Okay. I owe you a barbecue portion."
"Deal." Hazzard tossed his trash into the nearby wastebasket and went into the restroom.
I mulled over the full ramifications of my new debt. He'd thrown me, again. Was I such a skag that he didn't want to get inside my clothing? What kind of guy doesn't press an advantage like that? And where on earth did he come from?
"You ready to get back to work, Boss?" Hazzard grinned again.