Paw and Order Page 7

  Down the block, across the first cross street in a single bound, or maybe two, paws hardly touching down on the pavement, still warm from the heat of the day: I was on the move! Do I love being on the move? Yes, but this wasn’t quite like that, on account of the voice in my head: Bernie! Bernie! So I still loved it, but I was out of my mind at the same time, if that makes any sense, although I’m pretty sure it doesn’t. But what can I do?

  All I know is what I did then, namely fly down that block—

  “Mom! There’s a huge dog on the loose!”

  —and one or two more, across another street, a street with lots of headlights on the move, and sudden blasts of honking, and then . . . and then I lost the scent. When you lose the scent, you double back real quick, which was what I did—

  HONK! HONK!

  “Someone call animal control!”

  —and found the scent again—I was smelling only for doughnuts now, so much car smell around it was impossible to tell one from another—practically right away, on the far side of this crossroads. Yes, they’d made a turn onto this street, maybe kind of busy. I flew down the sidewalk, or maybe along the side of the road, the sidewalk having come to an end sometime back, my mind on doughnut scent and nothing else. Except for: Bernie!

  Honking and running; shouting and running; squealing brakes and running. Running and running and running: that was me, a runner, pure and simple. And what was this, not far up this street? A blue light? Yes! Blue lights meant cop stations, of which I’d seen plenty during my career. Next thing I knew I was right under that blue light, barking at the closed door, the air almost pure doughnut.

  The door opened and a cop looked out. “What the hell?” he said.

  A man spoke behind me. “It’s all right, officer. I’ll take care of this.”

  I turned and saw a man in a green uniform getting out of a van. A normal sort of guy, smaller than most, but he was holding a long pole with a big loop on the end. I knew that kind of pole from several scary episodes in my past. Dogsnatcher was the name of the pole, making the little guy in the green uniform a dogcatcher, someone whose whole life was about rounding up those of us in the nation within and putting us where no one would ever want to go. The little guy moved toward me in a casual sort of way with a casual sort of smile on his face—but also with surprising speed—and whipped that loop right over my head and around my neck and—

  But no. When it was almost too late, what with me at my slowest, my mind on other things, I bolted sideways and the loop glanced off me. And in that sideways bolt, I picked up the very faintest smell of Bernie. I followed it at top speed down a paved alley that ran beside the cop station and ended at a parking lot around the back. More Bernie smell here, no doubt about it. The trail led to the rear door of the station, closed just like the front one. Bernie was on the other side of that door! I rose up, clawed at the handle, but it was one of those pulls, impossible for me. I clawed and clawed, and barked my head off, and—

  And totally forgot about the dogcatcher, a real big mistake on my part. Whoosh. That nasty loop slipped over my head and tightened around my neck. I turned and twisted and growled and fought, getting nowhere. At the other end of the pole, the little man in the green uniform didn’t seem to be putting any effort into this at all. The total effort was coming from me. That made me mad, and in my madness I struggled harder and harder, and then harder than that, until my breath was gone out of me and the loop was too tight for getting any breath back in. The eyes of the little man showed nothing, except maybe a hint of enjoyment. He flipped me over onto the ground. Flipped me? How was that possible? But it happened.

  The loop loosened slightly and I sucked in some air. I was still doing that, still lying on my side—but with rough and bloody plans taking shape in my mind—when a man with a big strong nose climbed out of a car parked all by itself at the very back of the lot. He wore a dark suit and walked in an intense sort of way, pushing an energy wave in front of him. I knew this man: Mr. Ferretti, double R’s double T’s, Victor D.

  He came over to where we were, me and the dogcatcher, and said, “What have we here?”

  NINE

  * * *

  What we had here was me lying on the pavement in a parking lot behind the cop station where the cops had taken Bernie, unless I was missing something. But what? Doughnut smells and Bernie smells mixed up together could only mean one thing. Bernie was in that building! I had to get inside and that was that.

  The little dogcatching man in the green uniform blinked and said, “Huh?”

  Ferretti moved in, leaned down, and gave me a close look.

  “Need you to back up,” the dogcatcher said. “For your own safety.”

  Ferretti raised his head slowly, transferred his gaze to the dogcatcher. “Excuse me?” he said.

  The dogcatcher didn’t seem to like that gaze, had trouble meeting it. “I’m an authorized animal control officer performing my duty. You need to back up.”

  “Yes,” Ferretti said, not backing up an inch, which I took to be a very small distance. “I got that part on the first go-around. Pertinent fact—I know this dog. His name is Chet.”

  “He belongs to you?”

  “I didn’t say that. But I’m in position to contact the owner.”

  “Save him some money, sooner you do,” the dogcatcher said. “Tell ’im to contact the facility, arrange a pickup.”

  “The facility?” Ferretti said.

  The dogcatcher moved the pole in a way that twisted me back up to my feet. “Animal control. We’re online.”

  “Seems like a lot of trouble,” Ferretti said.

  “Huh?” said the dogcatcher. Certain humans—take Presto Figueiroda, for example, who’d stolen a shipment of scratch tickets without one winner in the whole truck—said huh a lot. The dogcatcher was turning out to be that type.

  “Trouble for everyone concerned, including you,” Ferretti said. “I propose that I simply relieve you of the fugitive here and now.”

  “What fugitive?”

  “Chet, here. I was being facetious.”

  The dogcatcher’s mouth opened in a way that made me think he was about to say huh again, but he did not. He just stood there, mouth open.

  “My intention being,” Ferretti went on, “to take Chet off your hands and simply return him to his owner, slicing through all the red tape.”

  The dogcatcher shook his head. “No can do.”

  Ferretti’s voice, not gentle to begin with, got even less so. “You’re losing me.”

  “It’s against regs,” the dogcatcher said. “Even if you was the owner, which you ain’t. This is an open case on my docket, and it don’t close till I make delivery.”

  Ferretti sighed. “The whole goddamn town is organized like that,” he said. “Which is why we are where we are.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” Ferretti took out a badge, held it so the dogcatcher could see. “All you need to know is that I’ll be taking over now.”

  The dogcatcher licked his lips—his tongue was pointy and very small, even for a human—leaned forward to squint at the badge, squinted at it for a good long time, and then looked at Ferretti, looked at him in a whole new way.

  “You want the rig, too?” he said.

  “Rig?”

  “Lasso rig,” the dogcatcher said, giving the pole a little shake that made the loop rub against my neck in a way I didn’t like.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Ferretti said.

  He wiggled his finger in the signal that means “come,” and we followed him, the dogcatcher holding the pole out to the side, the loop digging into my neck. I thought about doing this and that, but no good thises or thats occurred to me before we reached Ferretti’s car.

  “Just so happens,” he said, opening the front passenger-side door, “that I picked up a sandwich in cas
e this turned into a long night. A steak sandwich, to be precise.” Which I’d known the moment he’d opened the door, actually just before. He produced the sandwich, removed the paper wrapper, picked a nice big piece of steak from between the bread slices—and then another!—and dropped them on the floor. “Let’s see if he likes steak.”

  “Of course he—” the dogcatcher began.

  “Meaning take that thing off him.”

  “I wouldn’t advise—”

  “And I wouldn’t consider your advice, so we’re in sync,” Ferretti said.

  Whatever that was, the dogcatcher didn’t like it one little bit; his head snapped back like he’d been slapped. Slap him, Mr. Ferretti, slap him! A crazy thought, maybe, but it was still on my mind when the dogcatcher reached over and slipped the loop off my neck. He stepped quickly away but not out of leaping distance. I got my paws under me, coiled up my strength, and—

  “How about that steak, Chet?” Ferretti said.

  —jumped right into the front of Ferretti’s car. He closed the door, went around to the other side, got in, and turned the key. Those two pieces of steak were history before we started rolling.

  • • •

  We drove in silence through streets I didn’t know. They got nicer as we went along, more trees, more hills, more big houses. The shotgun seat of Ferretti’s car was bigger than the shotgun seat in the Porsche, and really just as comfortable, but not so homey, if that makes any sense.

  Ferretti glanced over at me. “My late wife was allergic.” He drummed his fingers, long and bony, on the steering wheel. “Is there a way to end up with you when this one’s in the can?”

  Me end up with Ferretti? Was that it? Made no sense to me at all. I was with Bernie, now and forever. As for allergic, it’s a mystery, although we hear that a lot in the nation within.

  “But first things first,” Ferretti said after a while. “Can’t let the tail wag the dog.”

  I lost track of things for a while after that. Tail wag the . . . ? Had I heard right? Nothing wrong with my hearing. In fact, it’s probably much better than yours, no offense. I was very conscious of my tail at that moment, and almost certain it was fixing to wag me and wag me good. My tail has a mind of its own, maybe something that Ferretti didn’t realize. I gave him a careful look. From the side his face reminded me of a cliff I knew out in the desert—a cliff that had turned out to be kind of dangerous for me and Bernie, but no time for that now. The point is that the dangerous cliff had a big nose-shaped rock sticking out of it, so if a cliff face could look like a man face, then Ferretti was the guy, if you get what I mean, and I wouldn’t blame you at all if you don’t. I actually wouldn’t blame you for anything. You’ve been very patient so far.

  When I started paying attention again, we were in some suburb, a real nice one with big houses spread far apart and lots of woods between them, meaning maybe we were out in the country. Ferretti turned down a dark lane that led through some trees and came to an end at a small meadow. On the far side of the meadow stood one of those big houses. A party was going on in the backyard, which bordered the other side of the meadow. Lots of people all dressed up, candlelight glinting on glasses and silverware, music, laughter, plus there’d be leftovers out the yingyang: it looked like fun.

  But we didn’t get out of the car. Ferretti cut the lights and the motor and just sat there, watching the party.

  “Same old question,” he said. “Who’s using who?”

  That was an old question? Brand new to me. I tried to figure it out, got nowhere. Meanwhile, Ferretti unwrapped what was left of the steak sandwich and took a bite. I made up my mind that Ferretti was a pretty good guy. Hadn’t he shared his sandwich with me before? No reason he wouldn’t be doing it again, and soon. Except he didn’t, even though I waited politely, keeping my mouth almost closed.

  “What I’d like to know,” Ferretti said, speaking with his mouth full, which I knew was not polite from Leda telling Charlie many many times, “is who planted that pink popgun in the flowerpot.”

  I kind of remembered the pink popgun in the flowerpot. Other than that, I had zip.

  Ferretti took one of those little plastic dental floss packs out of a cup holder and began to floss his teeth. “Same person who pulled the trigger, or is the setup more complicated?” he said. Or something like that: humans aren’t easy to understand when they’re flossing their teeth. I’ve had my own teeth flossed lots of times by Janie the groomer, who has the best business plan there is—she comes to us!—but no time for that now, on account of the flossing suddenly freeing up a surprisingly large piece of steak and launching it with amazing speed in an arc that ended on the dashboard right in front of my face! I’ve had a lot of luck in life and it didn’t seem to be running out anytime soon. I made quick work of what had to be the last of the steak—unless . . . whoa! unless Ferretti had some more hidden away in his mouth. I didn’t take my eyes off him until he finished flossing and flicked the used floss out the window.

  He glanced my way. “What’s so interesting?”

  Strange question. What wasn’t interesting? Ferretti: a bit of a puzzler. Also I wasn’t liking him quite as much as before, not sure why.

  The look on his face changed. “You’ve given me an idea,” he said. I had? I tried to remember my last idea, was still working on it when Ferretti went on. “What’s needed here is a cat’s paw, and who could play that role better than your—”

  Some movement at the party caught Ferretti’s attention. I was vaguely aware of that, also vaguely aware of a newcomer at the party, a tall, silver-haired dude, one of those dudes who holds his head up high. He came striding across the lawn, attracting a ring of men and woman, got involved in a lot of handshaking and cheek kissing. But all that was vague in my mind, which had pretty much been taken over by one thing and one thing only: cat’s paw. I’d had experience with cat’s paws, more than once and never good. What makes them so quick? Also the tip of my nose is quite sensitive; just thought I’d throw that in, mainly because the tip of my nose was suddenly remembering how sensitive it was.

  Back to the silver-haired dude, now holding a champagne glass. We’d had a whole set of champagne glasses back before the divorce. Was it my fault they’d been in a tray on an end table when my tail had happened to spring into action?

  “There’s our boy,” Ferretti said, lowering his voice and leaning forward. He watched the silver-haired dude doing nothing much—talking, sipping, laughing. Women seemed to like touching his arm. “We’ve had twelve generals who went on to become presidents, some of them not half bad,” Ferretti said. “So why not Travis Galen Galloway? The president’s numbers are in the toilet. Look—he can just about taste it.”

  That toilet thing again? And now tasting was a possibility? This party looked interesting. But that was as close as I got. Ferretti started the car and backed away. “Nice party,” he said, “if you like parties where you need a check for fifty K to get in the door.”

  • • •

  We drove back into the city. Ferretti was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “Let’s give it a whirl.”

  I got a little nervous. Once Bernie had tried the giving it a whirl thing and we’d ended up down at the bottom of a well, just the two of us and for way too long.

  Ferretti got on his phone. “What I told you before might happen?” he said. “Make it happen.”

  I heard the faint voice of a woman on the other end. “Will do.”

  “One more thing,” Ferretti said. “Is our little birdie still in sector B?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Bring her in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ferretti clicked off, turned to me. “Wouldn’t do to get hoisted by our own petard.”

  That sounded right to me, although I’d only ridden a hoist once, on a downtown construction site where Bernie and I were working a case involving stolen co
pper pipe, a snap to solve on account of copper being one of the easiest smells out there.

  “But FYI,” Ferretti went on, “be prepared for much more of that in future. Getting hoist by your own petard probably tracks one for one with technological progress.”

  That one zipped right by me. Meanwhile, the neighborhood began to look familiar, and soon we came to Suzie’s street. The yellow Beetle was parked in front of Lizette’s big house, and the driveway gate stood open. Ferretti slowed down, stopped in a pool of shadow. Then he hit a button and my window slid down.

  “It’s been real.”

  Humans said that from time to time, a complete mystery to me.

  “Out,” he said. “Go.”

  I knew out. I knew go. I went out, leaping through the open window and trotting up the driveway to the carriage house. The sound of Ferretti’s car rumbling off grew fainter and fainter and finally faded to nothing.

  TEN

  * * *

  Lights shone in the carriage house, and I heard voices inside. I stood at the door, and after a while found I was out of ideas. I barked, just a single bark, and waited. When nothing happened, I waited some more. Then it occurred to me that nothing was still happening, and I barked again, maybe louder this time. The door opened and Suzie looked out.

  “Chet!” She clapped her hands together. “You’re back!” She opened her arms and I jumped right into them, so happy to see her.

  Suzie’s surprisingly strong for a not-very-big human, but it’s possible she staggered just a bit. I didn’t know. I was too busy licking her face.

  “Chet, easy there, easy,” she said, and I immediately dropped down, all paws nice and peaceable on the floor, and if not immediately then the next best thing.