Japanese Saganaki Beetle.”
“Why are you wearing that mask?”
“Uh...so they don't recognize me. Hold on, I need to ask you a few sapling questions.”
I eased down, careful to avoid straining myself. When I reached ground, the dog trotted over and amiably sniffed at my pants.
“I'm afraid I don't know much about agriculture.”
From the tree, Ms. Cummings was nothing to look at. Up close, she made me wish I was still in the tree.
The woman was almost as wrinkly as the dog. But unlike her canine companion, she had tried to fill in those wrinkles with make-up. From the amount, she must have used a paint roller. The eye shadow alone was thick enough to stop a bullet. Add to that a voice like raking gravel, and she was quite the catch.
I tried to think of something to ask her, to keep the beetle ploy going. But this was getting too complicated, so I just took out my gun.
“The dog.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“The what?”
“That thing on your leash that's wagging its tail. Hand it over.”
“Why do you want my dog?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it does. I don't want you to shoot me, but I also don't want to hand over my dog to a homicidal maniac.”
“I'm not a homicidal maniac.”
“You're wearing a ski mask in ninety degree weather, hopping from one foot to the other like some kind of monkey.”
“I had too much soda. Give me the damn leash.”
She handed me the damn leash. So far so good.
“Okay. You just stand right here, and count to a thousand before you go back inside, or else I'll shoot you.”
“Aren't you leaving?”
“Yeah.”
“Not to second-guess you, Mr. Dognapper, but how can you shoot me, if you've already gone?”
Know-it-all.
“I think you need a bit more blush on your cheeks. There are some folks in Wisconsin who can't see it from there.”
Her lips down turned. With all the lipstick, they looked like two cartoon hot dogs.
“This is Max Factor.”
“I won't tell Max if you don't. Now start counting.”
I was out of there before she got to six.
#
After I got back to my office, I took care of some personal business, washed my hands, and called the client. He agreed to come right over.
“Mr. McGlade, I can't tell you how...oh, yuck.”
“Watch where you're stepping. Marcus decided to mark his territory.”
Thorpe made an unhappy face, then he took off his shoe and left it by the door.
“Mr. McGlade, thank you for...yuck.”
“He's marked a couple spots. I told you to watch out.”
He removed the other shoe.
“Did you bring the money?”
“I did, and I—wait a second!”
“You might as well just throw away the sock, because those stains...”
“That's not Marcus!”
I looked at the dog, who was sniffing around my desk, searching for another place to make a deposit.
“Of course it's your dog. Look at that face. He's a poster boy for Retin-A.”
“That's not a he. It's a she.”
“Really?” I peeked under the dog's tail and frowned. “I'll be damned.”
“You took the wrong dog, Mr. McGlade. This is Abigail's bitch, Julia.”
“It's an honest mistake, Mr. Thorpe. Anyone could have made it.”
“No, not anyone, Mr. McGlade. Most semi-literate adults know the difference between boys and girls. Would you like me to draw you a picture?”
“Ease up, Thorpe. When I meet a new dog, I don't lift up a hind leg and stick my face down there to check out the plumbing.”
“This is just...oh, yuck.”
“The garbage can is over there.”
Thorpe removed his sock, and I wracked my brain to figure out how this could be salvaged.
“Any chance you want to keep this dog instead? You said she was a magnificent broad.”
“Bitch, Mr. McGlade. It's what we call female dogs.”
“I was trying to put a polite spin on it.”
“I want Marcus. That was the deal.”
“Okay, okay, let me think.”
I thought.
Julia had her nose in the garbage can, sniffing Thorpe's sock. If I could only switch dogs somehow.
That was it.
“I'll switch dogs somehow,” I said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Like a hostage trade. I'll call up Ms. Cummings, and trade Julia for Marcus.”
“Do you think it'll work?”
“Only one way to find out.”
I picked up the phone.
#
“Ms. Cummings? I have your dog.”
“I know. I watched you steal him an hour ago.”
For someone who looked like a mime, she was sure full of comments.
“If you'd like your dog back, we can make a deal.”
“Is my little Poopsie okay? Are you taking care of her?”
“She's fine. I can see why you call her Poopsie.”
“Does Miss Julia still have the trots? Poor thing.”
I stared at the land mines dotting my floor. “Yeah. I'm all broken up about it.”
“Make sure she eats well. Only braised liver and the leanest pork.”
Julia was currently snacking on a tuna sandwich I'd dropped under the desk sometime last week.
“I'll do that. Look, I want to make a trade.”
I had to play it cool here, if she knew I knew about Marcus, she'd know Thorpe was the one who hired me.
“What kind of trade?”
“I don't want a female dog. I want a male.”
“Did Vincent Thorpe hire you?”
Dammit.
“Uh, never heard of him.”
“Mr. Thorpe claims I have his dog, Marcus. But the last time I saw Marcus was at an AKC show last April. I have no idea where his dog is.”
