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door. It’ll kick inflation sky fuckin’ high, it will, and take decades ta bring ‘er back down. Meanwhile, Obama’s on Letterman smilin’ away’n promisin’ a college ed-jur-kation fer every punk kid who slides through high school. We gotta pay fer that, Chief. We—”

“I don’t wanna hear no more!” Malone gruffed.

They cruised out of the shopping sector and were soon headed down less gainly avenues.

Few words could describe Malone’s state of mind just then. Dolorous, perhaps. Disconsolate…

Boover sensed his superior’s tamped mood. “How’s about some music, Chief? A little livenin’ up’s what ya need,” and he switched on the radio:

“—punky, a que-unky runky—pee, que, are!—sunky, you tunky you-unky—”

“Jesus, Boover!” Malone yelled and switched it off. “I dont’s need ta hear that on Christmas Eve, ‘specially when we’se…” He never finished the sentence.

“You’se worried ’bout the mutt, huh, Chief?” Boover thumbed a cue-ball-sized wad of tobacco into his mouth. “Who knows? Maybe the dog-killer left town. Maybe he got hisself kilt in a drive-by. And maybe, just maybe, li’l Buster’s jumpin’ ’round in the yard right now…”

My God, I’se hope so…

They slowed past the house, then stopped. Malone jumped out while Boover followed more leisurely, and said, “I’ll meet ya inside.”

The chief rushed to the fence, whistling, and yelled, “Buster! Buster! You still here?”

Silence.

Buster was no longer in the yard, which could only mean…

Aw, sweet Jesus…

“Hey, Chief!” Boover called. He was already in the house. Malone shuffled in, head down, hands in pockets.

“It’s bad news for Buster, but good news for us,” Boover said at the kitchen table. He was finnicking with the stop-frame camera.

“With my luck, that dang thing didn’t even work, and Buster died fer nothin’…”

“Have faith, Chief. Look,” and Boover pointed to the tiny, auxiliary play-back screen atop the machine.

Malone squinted.

In the lit yard, in stop-motion, a shifty-looking short-haired Hispanic man was carrying Buster off. His t-shirt appeared to bear the image of Al Pacino holding an M-16. The man grinned satanically (the Hispanic, not Al Pacino). Buster wagged his tail-stump and happily licked his abductor’s face. Before the man proceeded out of frame, his angle afforded the camera a perfect front-on shot of his face.

“There he is, Chief,” Boover nodded. “Looks like we caught ourselfs the puppy-killer…”

(II)

At nine o’clock in the morning, Helton, Micky-Mack, and Dumar awoke, but they were disconcerted to see that Veronica had not. Helton, knowing the toll the last few days had taken, refrained from waking her. In the meantime, he figured that the best tactic now would be simply to devise a way of finding Paulie, and confronting him. The prospect of another trip to New York unsettled him mightily. Helton suspected that after seeing the next video, Paulie would assuredly seek some mode of extreme retaliation—therefore, Paulie would return to the area if he hadn’t remained here in the first place. “It works ta our advantage, boys ’cos, see, we know that Paulie’s drivin’ ’round in a big fancy white motor-home on account that’s what Cork McKellen’s kid tolt us. We know what Paulie drives but he don’t know what we drive.” “Yeah, Paw,” Dumar concurred. “All’s we gotta do is drive around till we see that big fancy white motor-home.” “Cain’t be many’a them around,” Micky-Mack deduced and rubbed his crotch. Hence, the current plan of action, but Helton deemed it imperative that Paulie get the next video file soon and, regrettably—and conveniently for the author—-it wasn’t till past seven in the evening that Veronica finally roused from a shock-spurred, semi-catatonic slumber. Her eyes remained wide and glassy, her mouth hung open. Helton was very concerned but he trusted that his prayers would make it so that this current state of being “all fucked up in the head on account‘a that movin’ picture I’se made her watch” would remedy itself in time. A psychiatrist would likely label her symptoms as “abulia-related indifference with evidence of facial-affect disorder, acute agnosia, and trauma-induced prosopagnosia,” but “all fucked up in the head” worked much better. The only word she seemed to ever say was the name “Mike”; all other responses were subverbal, nodding for yes, shaking her head for no. She did remain “reactively compliant,” however, and retained her ability to take transitive action via verbal commands from others. For instance, whenever Micky-Mick asked, “Hey, Veronnerka? Will you show me that there hum-dinger set of tits’a yers?” she would nod and pull her top up. When Dumar asked, “Hey, Veronnerka? How’s ’bout holdin’ my dick fer me whilse I pee?” she nodded and held it, and when Helton quietly asked, “Veronnerka? How’s ’bout sendin’ Paulie the movin’ picture we made last night? That all right with you?” she nodded, eyes staring, and in a short period of time managed to turn on her laptop and get online. Then Helton offered her the “doohickey,” and in an autonomic state, she emailed the digital video file to Paulie…

(III)

Case Piece was making the scene with Sung. They bought Grape Slushes from an inexplicably dour-faced Russian girl at the Hess station, along with two “Hess Burgers,” which were actually pretty good. Then they bopped down the street, looking for “hypes” who wanted to “cop.”

You hip to that hop?

“Shit, that Russian ‘ho in there has tits top as a crown but I wonder why she all grimacin’ and shit. Look like she had a bad taste in her mouth.”

“Shit, Clase Preece,” Sung complained, munching his Hess Burger. “I hate fruckin’ Russians.”

Case Piece wore blue and white boxer shorts up to his waist; he pulled his jeans down lower till they were halfway down his ass. “Sung, my dawg! We don’t hate people just ‘cuzza where they from, man. Like I was sayin’, we gotta accept all dudes and ‘hos and their cultures’n shit. Ain’t hip to hate Russians, or anyone.”

“Fruck Russia. They give jret pranes to evil North Ko-wee-ah during the Ko-wee-an Roar and twain their pirates to fry them! Dwop bombs on us, until Amar-wickens come and help us. God Bress Amar-wickah, and fruck Russia!”

“Whatever, man.”

The nighted downtown streets bustled with cars and Christmas shoppers. Strings and strings of Christmas lights glowed, swaying in a light breeze; at intersections, garlands of shimmering tinsel looped from phone pole to phone pole. Down the road, they heard, “You better not pout, you better not cry…”

“Shit, tomorrow’s Christmas, man,” Case Piece realized. “Been so busy slingin’ skag, I forgot.”

“Yeah, man, Kuh-wiss-muss! We need to gret some crandy cranes!”

“Fuck, I guess Menduez don’t even celebrate Christmas.”

“Rye you sray that?”

“Well, shit, man. Can’t see a dude who cuts puppys’ heads off bein’ much into Christmas.”

“Oh, yeah…”

“And I guess he back in the warehouse now. I seen him bring in a puppy last night…”

Case Piece and Sung said nothing for several grim minutes. They knew what was in store for that puppy…

Case Piece slowed, eyes opened in a sudden supervening awareness, “Yo, yo, I feel a Rap comin’ on…”

“You grow, Crase Pleece!”

Case Piece strutted his stuff in the street, pointing his fingers down in the fashion of pistols. “We come in, then we leave, I got tricks up my sleeve, you better fuckin’