by Rick Bowers
As Tripod scampered from dog to dog, Laura thought about the text. Who the hell would send such a threatening message? This was real life. Not a Netflix series. So, who had sent it? The real killer? The police? By now, both knew Nash’s new lawyers had filed an appeal. The media was picking up the story.
Laura was lost in her thoughts. Time passed without her even noticing. The wind picked up and died down, then picked up again. Dog owners led their pets out the exit gate, while new ones led theirs through the entrance. The sun was back out from the clouds when her phone buzzed with a text.
Again, no name, no number:
WHERE’S TRIPOD?
Laura’s brain went red with rage, panic coursing through her. What the fuck?
She scanned the dog park. There was no sign of Tripod. She leapt to her feet and climbed atop the picnic table. From that vantage point, she could look out over the entire space. No Tripod. She jumped down from the table and raced down the rise, looking right and left. She didn’t see her dog. She approached a middle-aged man in a flannel shirt who was tossing a ball to a young Lab.
“Hey!” She was breathless, her chest heaving. “Have you seen a three-legged Border collie?”
“Nope.” The man shrugged, turned, and tossed the ball. “Go get it, Chester!”
Laura hurried toward the gates. A small cluster of trees shrouded the area just south of the entrance. Maybe Tripod had followed a dog under the canopy; maybe he was wrestling with a terrier, digging up an old bone, or resting in the shade. She scanned the area. Nothing. Goddammit.
Laura started following the chain-link fence around the perimeter of the park. Hustling, she traced it for thirty or forty feet, then stopped to look around. No sign of him. She raced another forty feet and put on the brakes again. Still no sign of him. She reached the far side of the park, but he wasn’t there, either. She approached a tall, young woman standing near the fence, her eyes glued on her setter.
“Have you seen a three-legged Border collie?”
“Yeah,” the woman replied. “What a cutie. What’s his name?”
“Where? Where?”
“Well, it was like a half-hour ago. I’m not sure where he went. Let me think. Oh, yeah, it looked like he was heading for the trees over by the gate.”
Laura retreated back to the grove, but no Tripod. Her brain shifted into overdrive. Where are you? Who the hell would do this? What the hell do they want with you? I’ll find you, I promise.
Her phone buzzed with another anonymous text.
She stared at the screen, and her eyes glazed over. Her skin burned, and her brain felt like a dagger had been jammed into it, then twisted to maximize the pain.
THE DUMPSTER.
30
Laura dodged rollicking canines and confused owners as she exited the dog park. She ran back toward the minimart parking lot, stopping forty feet from the filthy, green dumpster. She squatted down like a baseball catcher and took a deep breath.
Is he in there? Is he…?
She looked in every direction. No one to her right; no one to her left. She snapped her head back over her shoulder to confirm that there was no one behind her. She stood up straight, sucked in a lungful of air, and began stepping forward. Putting one foot in front of the other, she made painstaking progress toward the receptacle. She pushed through an invisible barrier of dread with each step. Images of her dog ran through her mind. Tripod at the beach, Tripod in the woods, Tripod taking a walk. Laura could not bear the thought of losing him. She could feel her fear turning to white-hot, searing anger. Who would steal her dog?
Laura was maybe twenty feet from the trash bin. She smelled rust and rotting waste. She was ten feet away when she stopped and listened. A faint scratching sound came from inside the bin. She was five feet away when she called out, “Tripod…?”
She listened for any response. More scratching. Two feet away. She reached out to touch the filmy, metallic surface. She was so intent on finding her dog that the stench of decay did not matter. Rising to her feet and reaching for the lid, she heard a scream.
“Stop!”
She spun toward the voice.
“Come back here!”
Shit. It was just a kid on the sidewalk, calling to his runaway dog.
Laura turned back to the dumpster. She gripped the grimy handle, lifting the metal plate.
Please, God. Let him be okay.
She winced and looked inside.
A small gray creature scurried in the refuge and leapt up. The rat screeched, bared its yellow teeth, and swiped its claws at her.
Damn it.
She slammed the lid shut. After a long moment, she opened it a crack and peered in. The rat was curled up in the corner, hiding in the mounds of rotting meat and banana peels. The smell of sour milk mingled with the aroma of rancid mayonnaise. Pools of vomit would have been less disgusting. She leaned over the edge, sweeping her hand through discarded paper plates, cardboard boxes, and cabbage stalks, choking back the vile she vowed not to puke and avoiding the rat.
No Tripod.
He’s not here. Laura exhaled. What gives?
She closed the lid as her phone buzzed with a new text message:
FINAL WARNING. DROP THE CASE.
She looked in all directions. Nothing. No one.
She took out her phone and composed a text to Charles Steel:
DOG STOLEN. MORE THREATS.
Laura was fighting back a growing sense of panic when she heard the bark. She would know that yap anywhere. “Tripod!” She snapped her head back toward the dog park. There he was, standing at the fence, wagging his tail, and calling out to her.
She raced back to the park, scrambled up the rise to Tripod. She bent to one knee and snatched him up, hugging him for a long moment. She never wanted to let go of him again.
“Who took you? Thank God, you’re okay. Let’s get out of here.”
Laura put him down, snapped on the leash, and ran him out of the park.
There it was again. The taste of bile in the back of her throat. The bands of invisible steel constricting her ribcage. The panic always started this way.
I can’t melt down. Let the fear pass.
Speed-walking down the sidewalk, she forced herself to take deep, even breaths, one shaking hand lingering over her solar plexus. She had to find her center and calm down. What should she do? It might not be safe back at her apartment. Whoever sent the texts and snatched her dog was smart enough to know where she lived. Laura had no desire to go home just to come face-to-face with her stalker—whoever it was.
She paused on the sidewalk to send another text to Charles:
Meet me at the Red Lion Café.
31
Laura sat at an iron mesh patio table at the outdoor bistro. Tripod stood by her side, drinking from a metal water bowl.
A tall, skinny waiter with dishwater hair and a challenged complexion hovered next to her with a notepad in hand, staring down at the dog. “How did the little guy lose his leg? Poor thing. Can he walk?”
“Just a latte, please,” Laura said. “A small latte.”
Asshole.
The kid cocked his head at her brusque tone and retreated back into the kitchen.
Laura looked up and down Essex Street. A diverse parade of pedestrian traffic navigated the wide boulevard. A Latino man in blue coveralls emerged from a work van and hustled into A-1 Custom Auto Parts. A middle-aged woman in stretch pants exited Pronto Dry Cleaning, hangers with shirts, pants, and dresses flopping over her shoulder. A woman in a flowery smock gazed into the window of the Sweet Smoke Vape Parlor at the corner of Essex and Carroll.
Laura looked farther up Essex. She was on the lookout for anything or anyone out of the ordinary. A teenage boy ascended the broad, brick steps of Saint Patrick’s Church. He could have been an altar boy, arriving to set up for evenin
g Mass. A city worker pushed a plastic barrel on rollers at the corner of Essex and Grand. The whiff of rotten vegetables from Key Nam Thai Soup mingled with car fumes and street dust.
The vibe on the street was reassuring. These mom-and-pop businesses and second-floor apartments were the real Brooklyn—no trendy bars serving eighteen-dollar cocktails, prepared by mixologists using “artisanal ice.”
An abrupt realization snapped her back to reality.
Laura realized that her mysterious starker knew a lot about her. Her name. Her cell number. Even her dog’s name. Just what she needed. A psycho who does his homework.
Laura looked up and down the street one more time. Still nothing unusual. Then, she fixed her gaze on a short, bulky man, walking—no, limping—in her direction.
Who the hell is this?
The middle-aged guy had a head like a bucket, a body like a granite block, and legs like redwood stumps. He wore an Army surplus jacket, oversized blue corduroys, scuffed combat boots, and a vintage Dodgers baseball cap. This was not a unified look.
Laura peered at the oncoming man. The closer he got, the more menacing he seemed. At fifty feet out, Laura made out a scar slashing across his forehead, and tattoos on his neck. Forty feet out, she noticed his crooked sneer and flattened nose. At twenty-five feet out, she looked into his cold, empty eyes, the color of thick, white haze in a sun-bleached sky. Despite their hazy gleam, those eyes were focused dead ahead, right at her.
He could have been a homeless meth-head—or a thug hired to kill her.
32
Laura clutched Tripod’s leash as the grizzled man stepped off the sidewalk and onto the patio.
Run. Run. Run. She ignored the impulse and froze in place.
The man limped toward her, shoulders squared, arms braced, and his white eyes narrowed to sinister slashes. Five feet from the table, he held out two meaty paws in a stop sign.
“Don’t run,” he grunted. “I’m a friend. I’m your new bodyguard.”
The strange newcomer pulled a steel-framed patio chair up to the table and lowered his massive body onto it. He scanned the space, moving his glazed eyes over a half-dozen patrons. Turning back to Laura, he held up an iPhone, hit a button, and handed it to her.
“This is Charles. Laura, say hello to Lou. He’s one of us.”
Laura gave the phone back to the stranger. “Hello, Mister…?”
“Hello.” His croak suggested one too many billy club whacks to the larynx. “Just call me Lou. No last name.”
“Okay.” Laura leaned back, easing her grip on the leash. “Thanks for coming.”
“You’re safe now. Your dog’s safe.” Lou’s voice was sandpaper-rough and foghorn-low. “You’re now under surveillance, one-hundred-percent-coverage, one-hundred-percent of the time. Whoever’s harassing you will show themselves, and we’ll be there to take care of them when they do.”
“‘We?’”
“You won’t even see us. Until you need us.”
“‘Us?’”
Lou grunted. “Yep. Us. No need to say more. We have you covered.”
“You work for Charles Steel?”
“Yes.”
Jesus, no wonder he’s a legend.
Tripod stood at attention under the table, sniffing the stranger’s boots. No growl, no bark.
“Look.” Lou studied her with those hazy eyes. “I’m here to get this situation under control. I specialize in these kinds of cases. I know you didn’t expect a mash-up of Quasimodo and the Incredible Hulk, but you got one.”
“Okay, it’s—it’s just that—”
“I get it, you’re traumatized. You’ve had a bad morning. Fill me in, and we’ll go from there.”
Laura leaned back in her chair. There was something she liked about this brutish, likely bare-knuckle brawler who’d just stomped into her life. Maybe it was his bulldozer personality. A hint of brilliance hid behind the brawn, scars, and tats. Undoubtedly, a colorful past had educated him on handling danger. If he worked for Charles Steel, she was sure he shared a knowledge of the law and investigations.
“Yeah, I guess I am traumatized. The stalker’s methods worked.”
“Sending a threatening text was meant to get your attention. Snatching your dog was meant to shock you into compliance. Now, their tactics will escalate. Next time, they’ll threaten to shit can you. These people are not nice.”
“I’m getting over it.” She smiled. “I’m dealing.”
“Good.”
Laura and Lou looked up at the reappearance of the kid waiter.
“Miss.” He looked at Laura, while ignoring Lou. “Is this man bothering you?”
“Bothering me?” Laura was stunned by the kid’s brashness. “Hmmm, no.”
“Is he with you?” the waiter demanded. “Or is he from the street?”
“What?”
Lou curled his right hand and coughed into it.
“We’ve been having problems with—” The kid stopped short of completing his sentence. Undoubtedly, he’d meant to say homeless men, filthy vagrants, vile street people, dirty beggars, or bums. “We’ve had trouble with them bothering our customers.”
“No problem,” Laura assured him. “We’re cool. He’s with me.”
“Just bring the check, sonny.” Lou issued the order in a low, serious tone, with one glazed eye targeting a spot in the middle of the waiter’s forehead.
The waiter turned red and marched off.
The next voice came from nowhere. “I see you two started without me.” Laura and Lou looked up to see Charles, well-dressed in a black sweater with muted African designs and slim-cut jeans. He laid his hands on the back of Laura’s chair. “And I see you’ve met Lou. He’s gonna look out for you. He’s gonna protect you from these bastards.”
Lou sprang from his chair, and Charles moved to take his place. The transition was as efficient as a military maneuver or a scene choreographed on Broadway.
“Who exactly is that man?” Laura asked Charles, as Lou began his peculiar walk away.
“Lou is my number-two man. The guy is a master of personal security, and a hell of an investigator. He can keep you safe while assisting with the investigation. From now on, Lou is engaged one-hundred-percent.”
“Where did you ever find him?”
Charles shrugged. “Lou was riding with a bikers’ club in Queens. The Night Riders. He got rung up on a breaking-and-entering beef. The cops locked him up in the Tombs. I heard about it, checked it out, and figured out he had nothing to do with the B&E. I pointed out the holes in the case to the DA and got the charges dropped. Lou paid me back by working with my investigative team. The rest is history.”
“You have an eye for talent.”
“Always on the lookout for fresh blood. I’m looking for a new undercover guy as we speak. A smooth operator who can fit into any situation. Lou kind of… stands out.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open.”
Charles continued urgently, “Now, tell me what happened. What the hell is going on?”
Laura didn’t answer immediately, watching Lou limp away into the distance. She smiled with appreciation as he vanished into the parade of humanity.
33
The old man had a fringe of hair, a wizened face, and blue eyes that hid in purple flesh. His shoulders were rounded, his back was hunched, and his hands quivered most of the time. He had the resigned look of one who knows that at his age, life has stopped giving and only takes away. His memories both warmed and haunted him, sometimes drawing a smile, but most times, a tear. He had long since forgotten what it felt like to have joints that moved freely without pain. He had almost forgotten what it was like to live freely, to walk on a beach, to feel the rain, or watch the stars. The old man knew one thing for sure. Time was the thief he’d always suspected it to be, picking off his loved ones and friend
s, one by one. Everybody seems to want to have a long life, he told himself, but what good is it if you’re not free? What good is it if your retirement home is a cell block? What good is it if your destiny is to die in shackles? He would describe old age as bobbing on an ocean in a boat, not knowing when death will finally come to sever the rope that anchors you to the ocean floor and binds you to this earthly coil.
***
Eddie Nash wanted to retch, as usual, as the slime slinger piled his plastic plate with what the sign said was “Turkey a la King”. The putrid pile of off-white mush looked more like reheated puke, poured on regurgitated potato chunks. It had the smell of rancid poultry, and the consistency of runny shit. God, how he hated “Quick Chill,” the state’s new, cost-effective prison cuisine program. The scarf was cooked up at a minimum security facility three hours away and shipped to Attica, where it was reheated and served up as “gourmet fare.” Eddie carried his tray to the end of the line, stopping to fill his metal cup with coffee the color of sewer water.
“More swill,” he muttered, navigating the rows of rectangular wooden tables to the back of the mess hall, scanning the security cameras and tear gas dispensers mounted on the walls. Eddie strode past the Plexiglas-enclosed control room, careful not to eyeball the screw who stood ready to push a button that would—at the first sign of trouble—trigger a shower of tear gas on them all.
Eddie passed the tall columns and archways that gave the mess the false atmosphere of a cathedral. He reached a table near the back wall and nodded to an old man sitting at the end by himself.
“Hey, Doc,” Eddie greeted him, as if he were an old friend. “Doc Gleason.”
In contrast, the elderly con lifted his head in slow motion and managed a half-hearted nod. “Nash… sit.”
Eddie placed his tray on the pinewood and lowered himself onto a chair opposite the old lifer.