yapping dog from their encounter on South Street. Charlton? Carleton? Something like that. The dog had silky red-gold hair and an ugly rat face. The man had plain brown hair and an ugly rat face.
'We tried to tell you your uncle had things that didn't belong to him,' the man in the Morris chair said. 'I don't know why you couldn't help us recover our property sooner.'
'I didn't know what you wanted. I only found the-them-on a hunch.' She didn't want to say out loud what she had seen, what she had touched.
'But there is something else he has stolen from our employer, and it is urgent we find that as well.'
'It might help if you told me what you were looking for. All this time, I thought you wanted my greyhound.'
Morris Chair shook his head. His face was long and thin, with deep hollows in his cheeks that gave him a wasted look.
'This dog was part of an earlier program that proved to be too, uh, labor-intensive. It's of no interest to us, and frankly, neither are you. But I guess you're going to be our guest for a while. Perhaps your uncle's friend, the little dishwasher, will suddenly remember where our property is, if he has some incentive.'
'Tommy doesn't know anything.' Tess felt desperate, thinking of her fate in Tommy's hands, imagining Tommy opening up a box with, say, her index finger in it. He'd probably deep-fry it and serve it during Happy Hour. 'You know, when I went out tonight, I told my aunt to call the police if I didn't return within the hour.'
All the men laughed at that. Tess wasn't sure if they didn't believe her or were simply confident it didn't matter. Nonplused, she gave Esskay a little slack on her leash, hoping the dog might pee on someone's leg. But the greyhound simply stared with bright eyes at Morris Chair, her brain's signals almost audible.
'You won't be returning within the hour,' Morris Chair advised her. 'You won't be returning at all until your uncle's friend cooperates.'
His lap dog jumped to the floor and sniffed her owner's shoes. Shiny slip-ons, sort of like patent leather bedroom slippers. And he wore a leather blazer, fingertip length, over a navy blue polyester sports shirt. All the men were dressed the same, more or less. Leather jackets or blazers, knit shirts, polyester pants, and shiny, soft loafers. Despite herself, Tess wondered where they shopped.
'Now, are you sure you don't have any ideas about where else your uncle might have hidden something?'
The little dog saw something move near the fireplace-a roach, a rat, a shadow-and gave chase, yapping excitedly. Tess felt a strange burning sensation against her palm as Esskay's metal chain jerked through her fingers before she could grab it. The greyhound had joined the hunt. But Esskay didn't want the small dog's prey. She wanted the small dog, whom she quickly trapped in the corner.
'Charlton!' Morris Chair screamed, rising from his chair. Too late. Esskay sank her teeth into the dog's soft belly, shaking it ferociously from side to side. The race was won! And Esskay had
Morris Chair made a horrible keening sound. The three other men rushed into the fray, then backed away, unsure what to do. Esskay kept her jaws clamped on the smaller dog, shaking it as if it were a small dust mop. Tess began edging toward the door, but stopped when she saw one of the men, the tall one who had first grabbed her, reach into his jacket and pull out a gun.
'Are you crazy?' she screamed, pushing past him and seizing Esskay by the snout, forcing her jaws open easily. After all, this wasn't a pit bull, or a Rottweiler. There was no strength here, no danger, nothing to fear except halitosis. The smaller dog writhed on the floor, possibly in shock, but the only visible damage were two small puncture wounds to its abdomen.
'Charlton,' Morris Chair whimpered, when she picked up the little dog and handed it to him.
'There's a twenty-four-hour vet not far from here,' Tess offered, surprised that she could feel some empathy for the man and his hideous little dog. 'Out Route 40.' Her three captors just stared blankly at her, as Morris Chair cradled Charlton in his arms.
'It's probably the road you brought me here on,' she explained. 'At least, I think that's the route, unless we came out Frederick Road. Route 40 runs off the Beltway, parallel to Frederick, you can't miss it. The vet is opposite the Toys R Us.'
'You stay here with her,' Morris Chair told Leather Jacket number 1, the tall one who had grabbed Tess in her parents' garage, as he rushed out, followed by Gravel Voice and Leather Jacket number 2.
'He loves that dog,' her remaining captor said, putting his gun on the mantel, as if to remind Tess it was still at hand. 'Anything happens to it, your dog's dead. Probably oughta be put down anyway, vicious as it is.'
He spoke without irony, this thug who had kidnapped her, beaten her her uncle, and tried to shoot Esskay.
'I think Charlton'll be okay. It was only a puncture wound.' She sank into the vacated Morris chair, her knees a little wobbly. Esskay tucked her nose under her elbow, looking for the treat she was sure she deserved.
'Wish we had a TV here,' he said. 'NCAA basketball is on.'
Not a Baltimore accent, but close. Obviously not familiar with the city at all, if they needed directions to Route 40. Philadelphia? Wilmington? Spike had claimed to be coming from the Delaware racetracks when he'd left the mulch for her mother. And Spike didn't go in for elaborate lies, preferring simple sins of omission when he couldn't tell the truth. What was the other thing they wanted? How could she find out?
'I know a good way to pass the time. Do you know how to play Botticelli?'
'Is that Italian for ‘Spin the Bottle'?'
'No, it's like twenty questions. You see, you pick a letter-say, S-and I ask you a question about a person whose name begins with S. For example, say your person was Mike Schmidt-'
'Greatest third baseman to ever play the game.'
Long pause. 'Yeah.'
'Good. Now to make it really interesting, why don't you tell me the letter of what you're looking for, and we can play for that.'
'I dunno-'
'Oh, c'mon. What are the odds I'll actually guess?'
Another round of deep thought, as if he were actually calculating her chances. 'You got a point.'
'Good. Now what's your letter?'
'I guess it's V. Could be C-no, it's V, definitely V.'
'Okay. Are you a twentieth-century writer with a cult following?'
'You gotta be fucking kidding me.'
Tess imitated the sound of a game show buzzer's rude call. 'You're not Kurt Vonnegut. Now I get to ask a yes-no. Are you-the item you're looking for-related to betting?'
'Can I say kinda?'
'Usually not.'
'Well, I'm gonna say kinda. It's kinda about betting, but not really. Tangential, you might say.'
'Fair enough. Next question. Are you Lolita's creator?' The real rules were clear that only last names could be used, but Tess had been deliberately vague in explaining the rules.
'I am not…I am not…I am not Valentine? Volare? Some Greek god, right?'
'Good try. Vladimir Nabokov. Do you have a monetary value?'
'No, I mean, it could, but only to a few people. You couldn't sell it from the back of a truck, but some people might pay you big money for it.'
'Okay. Are you the Pope's residence?'
Her competitor looked insulted. 'I'm not the Vatican.' He crossed himself.
'Good. Very good.' A right answer would soften him up, she decided, although she hadn't intended to ask him anything he knew. 'Are you a UN official with Nazi past?'
