Immortal Max (11 page)

“It was outpatient surgery,” he says, “but I'll need someone to walk my dog for a while. Depending on how I recover, a few weeks. Maybe longer.”

“That'd be great. I'm meeting with Mrs. Callahan at ten. I could meet with you before or after that.”

“After,” he says, and he gives me his address.

I barely get the phone hung up before it rings again. A man with a name I can't pronounce.

“Pet-drop-a-loss,” he repeats, talking slowly. “It is spelled
P-E-T-R-O-P-O-U-L-O-S
.”

I write it down and tell him about my other appointments.

“I am home all the time so come whenever you want.”

“Super. Nine o'clock. I'll be there at nine o'clock.” I write down his address, too.

I sit by the phone until bedtime, but there are no more calls. But I don't care. My ten-dollar ad has already brought me three customers.

I float all the way upstairs to bed.

Leaving my bike in the driveway, I ring the doorbell at Mr. Petropoulos's house. Right away, I hear barking—continuous barking—which Chief Beaumont considers a disturbance.

“
Swell
. Just swell.” I wonder what I'm going to find on the other side of the door.

“You come in—we sit—we talk—” The words explode from a dark whiskery little man shadowed by a dark whiskery little dog.

I introduce myself, struggle to say his name.

“You call me Mr. P. Lotta people, they have a hard time with my name. Everyone calls me Mr. P.”

“That'd be swell.” I'm relieved.

Mr. P is short with broad shoulders, muscular arms, and legs so bowed, he rocks side to side when he walks. Unruly gray hair pokes from his head like a porcupine's. Even his flat round ears are hairy. Friendly button eyes shine through a face lined with wrinkles, and white teeth flash when he smiles. Which is a lot. I like him right away.

His whiskery little shadow is another matter. He stopped barking when Mr. P let me in, but now he snarls when I look at him. Lips pulled back, showing pink gums. Teeth that are pointy white spikes. Growl a miniature boat motor sputtering in his throat.

“Fifty years, we have been in this country.” Mr. P points to a red velvet chair in his living room and sits down in an identical one across from me.

I perch on the edge of the chair, feeling eyes staring at me. Pictures of people wearing fluorescent halos line the walls. Brass plates and pitchers, dull gold and engraved with designs, fill tabletops. A brightly patterned rug—red and blue, green and yellow—covers the dark wood floor. I feel like I'm in a museum.

“We move here for freedom. In Greece, too much revolution. We escape on a boat by the hair on our chins.”

I stare at the spiky stubble on his chin and mumble, “Yes, sir.” Wondering who the “we” is that escaped with him, I look down the hallway. Listen for noises in the kitchen. There's silence, except for the little dog with the bristly bark.

Mr. P picks up a plate from a side table and hands it to me. “We have a treat while we talk. I make baklava for us. Baking, it is a hobby.” On the plate is a square-looking biscuit with something dripping off it. He picks up an identical plate, takes a bite, and looks at me.

“Uh, exactly what is . . . bak-la-va?” I flip the biscuit over, watch shiny stuff like Halloween slime string off my fork.

“You never have baklava?” He stares at me like I'm one of the Third World kids on TV. “Greek dessert, honey and nuts. Try it, you will like.”

What else can I do? I fork a piece, place it between my teeth, and bite down.

Baklava is delicious. Mr. P talks as I eat.

“We settle in this country after we leave Greece. I help build skyscrapers in Chicago.” Chicago sounds like
Ja-car-go
when he says it. “Work on buildings like Sears Tower. Trump Tower. Then I retire. We leave Chicago and move here to the country. The security gate, it makes us safe from gangs. No shootings here. Not so noisy.”

Not so noisy? Whiskery dog rumbles like a rocket on a launch pad every time I look at it.

“But we still got delinquents. In April, they wake us up, so I yell at them through the window. What do they do? Break the statue next to our front door. Run away, cackling like laughing jackals!”

Laughing jackals? I get it. He's talking about hyenas.

“Delinquents. Everywhere we live is delinquents.”

That “we” again.

“Um, they woke up you and your wife?”

“My wife, she passed on . . .” He holds up three fingers. “This many years now. We are married fifty years.”

“Oh. Sorry.” My plate empty, I set it on the table next to me. Mr. P has been so busy talking, he's hardly touched his baklava.

“So.” He looks at the scrapbook in my lap. “What do you know about Yorkies?”

Time to show my credentials. I turn quickly through my book and find the page on Yorkshire terriers. My collection is made up of things I've gotten from magazines and the web and glued into different sections. Choosing one of the clippings, I start talking, hoping to pass the test.

“See, this printout tells how the Yorkshire was developed in Yorkshire, England, as a ratter. And this one tells how it was brought to the U.S. in 1878 and became one of the most popular breeds of toy dogs because of its ‘sweet expression' and ‘cheerful character.' ”

I stare at the words
sweet expression
and
cheerful character
, glance toward the dog at Mr. P's feet. It answers with a growl.

“A ratter, huh?” Mr. P raises scraggy eyebrows, looking pleased. “Like me, a hard worker—and an emigrant. After I get off boat, I work very hard, too.”

As Mr. P finishes his baklava, I read the same section again to make sure I read it right. I'm surprised that a Yorkie is considered a working dog. All dogs started out as wild animals, but people tamed them and started breeding them to handle different jobs. Hunting. Herding. Protection. Even ratting. Now they're bred for other reasons. As people toys.
Noisy
people toys.

I make eye contact with the Yorkie. He bristles and starts up the boat motor. Ready to tear the big rat in the red velvet chair to shreds.

“I get him a treat so maybe he is happy.” Mr. P hobbles to the kitchen.

While he's gone, I do more cramming. I learn that Yorkshire terriers will bark when anything changes—but especially when a stranger enters their living area. I groan as I read another clipping that tells how Yorkies have been known to bark incessantly while being walked on a leash.

Great, just great. In my mind's eye, I see Chief Beaumont writing out a citation.

I chance a look at the dog again, get rumbling in response, and drop my eyes to my scrapbook. Spotting a crumb of baklava on red velvet, I flick it off.

Like I just hit an Off button, the growling stops. Whiskery dog snarfs up the crumb and wags his tail at me.

Aha
. I hold my plate close to the floor and let him lick it clean. He jumps in my lap when the crumbs are gone, licking my face.

I laugh. “No, that's all there is. I don't have any more.” A happy dog lies down beside me. Man's best friend.

“Hey, he likes you now.” Mr. P looks pleased when he sees the dog next to me. “Tell me more.” He calls the dog to him and feeds it treats.

“Uh, well, this article tells how the Yorkshire makes a good guard dog despite its size.”

Mr. P's eyes shine like bright black marbles. “That is my Apollo, all right. A good guard dog. Anyone comes close to the house, he wake me up . . . like
that
.” He snaps his fingers.

Apollo. The dog's name is Apollo. I debate whether it's named after the Greek god or the spacecraft that went to the moon. Considering Mr. P emigrated from Greece, I opt for the god. This particular Greek god weighs about four pounds.

Mr. P's eyes turn sad. “See Apollo's belly? Because of no walking, he gets fat. The vet, she says he must walk more.” He pats his own stomach, a basketball under his striped T-shirt. “I get fat, too. But my legs, they are not so good for walking anymore. Arthritis in the joints, you see.” He pats his knees.

For him, that's bad. For me, it's good.

Mr. P points to my scrapbook again. “You, uh, you going to walk any peekapoos?”

Peekapoos? Why's he asking about peekapoos?

“Um, yes, sir. I'm going to see Mrs. Callahan next. She has two peekapoos.”

“Mrs. Callahan is nice lady. We talk about our dogs when I go to the office.
Very
nice lady.” His mouth turns downward. “She reminds me of my wife. I miss her very much.”

Suddenly, Mr. P slaps his thigh. “Okay. A deal, we got. You start tomorrow, ten o'clock.”

“Great.”
I debate how to bring up the money part. “Um, did Yee and Anise talk to you about salary?”

“Salary? Oh. How much to walk my Apollo.” Looking stern, he smacks a fist into the other hand and says, “Five-dollar bill, not a dime more.”

“Each time?”

“Each time.” Another
smack
. “Not a dime more.”

Cool
. Fifteen dollars a week for walking a dog that fits in the palm of my hand.

I smack my fist, too, and say, “Not a dime more.”

I leave my bike at Mr. P's house like Chief Beaumont told me to do and head for Mrs. Callahan's to meet her two peekapoos. Her house is close by, just down the block and across the street.

Along the driveways, I see lights on posts. Solar-powered LEDs with red, blue, or yellow glass. Some posts are plastic, some aluminum. Others stainless steel. We have a big halogen light on a telephone pole to light our driveway. People at Country-Wood have Christmas lights.

As I walk, I become a calculator, figuring how long it will take to make enough to buy one of the puppies in the newspaper. If I can get fifteen a week for the four dogs, I'll make sixty dollars a week. In a little over four weeks, I'll have two hundred and sixty dollars. Ten dollars more than I need.

Woohoo
. I'm a laughing jackal all the way to Mrs. Callahan's.

When I saw Mrs. Callahan at the office, I couldn't see her very well behind her desk, so I'm surprised when she opens the door. She's as opposite Mr. Petropoulos as summer is to winter. Her hair is sunshine. Cheeks pink rose petals. Mouth a never-ending smile. In a singsong voice, she invites me into a living room filled with flowers that will never wilt. Flowery patterns cover the sofa and chairs. Pictures of flowers hang on walls. Vases of silk flowers fill every table. She introduces me to two white dogs, curly marshmallows with bows on their ears. Baby and Buddy hide behind her legs, growling at me.

“I don't know, Sammy.” Mrs. Callahan's smile starts to droop. “I'm afraid this isn't going to work.”

But it
has
to work. . . .

“Wait, let me show you what I know about peekapoos.” I sit down on the flowery sofa, open my scrapbook, and pause, remembering that Buddy and Baby are designer dogs, not purebred.
And
remembering that Beth gave me a printout about peekapoos.

I flip pages furiously, looking for the printout. It's
gone
.

Mrs. Callahan stares at me. Eyes expectant.

“I'll, uh, I'll have to look at two sections because Buddy and Baby . . . well, uh, they're not purebreds. They're a mix of poodle and Pekingese.”

The golden smile makes another showing. “
Phish
—like I care about purebred?” Mrs. Callahan settles into a flowery chair.

As I did with Mr. P, I talk about the best parts to Mrs. Callahan.
She's happy to hear that poodles are considered loyal and playful. That Pekingese, once considered sacred dogs, are dignified and aristocratic.

Buddy and Baby aren't so happy. Neither will come near me. When Mrs. Callahan's smile starts to droop again, my heart pummels my ribs. Silently, I regurgitate what I just read, select the choicest piece, and spit it out before I forget it.