Junkyard Dog (3 page)

“It's a job working with dogs. I met this guy Vince at the convenience store, and he said I had a way with dogs and—” I'm talking too quickly. That happens when I get nervous.

“How much are they paying you?”

“Twenty dollars a shift. If I work hard, they'll give me five shifts a week, and sometimes an extra morning shift before school, so that'd come to—”

Dad spins his chair around. He actually looks kind of impressed. “So where's your twenty dollars?”

“I don't get paid till Friday. But Friday's only four more—”

“Friday?” I hate when Dad shouts. Mrs. MacAlear hates it too, which says something considering she's hard of hearing. When Dad shouts, she whacks her broom against the wall between our apartments. “How do you know you'll even see this guy again? How do you know he didn't just rip you off?”

“I don't.”

Dad sucks in his bottom lip. “That's right, you don't. Let me tell you something, Justin, you can't trust anybody.”

There are two beer bottles on the floor next to Dad's chair. He's worse when he starts drinking before supper. “How about I make us something to eat?” I say. There's nothing on the hotplate, which means Dad hasn't started supper. And I'm starving.

What if Dad is right—and Vince and Floyd don't end up paying me? No, I can't let myself think like that. They're okay guys. Well, Vince is anyhow. They wouldn't stiff me for the money. They wouldn't take advantage of a kid. Or would they?

“When are we ever going to have something besides mac and cheese?” It sounds like Dad is talking to himself. I decide it's best not to say anything. Maybe he'll calm down.

I pull off my sweatshirt. It's damp from sweat. Then I head for our little kitchen and take a pot out from under the sink. I need to boil the water—or it'll be nine o'clock before we eat.

“I'm talking to you!” Dad says. He heads over to where I am. He's holding an unopened beer bottle.

I look around the apartment. It feels smaller than ever. I think about the dog shed in the used-car lot. Right now, even that shed seems like a better place than where I am.

Dad is so close I can smell the beer on his breath. I take a step back.

“What are you—afraid of me?” Dad is losing it now. “You know I'd never lay a hand on you.” His words come out like a sob. An angry sob.

That's true. Dad has never laid a hand on me. But he's done stuff that's almost as bad.

Then, just like that, Dad hurls the beer bottle against the wall. My whole body tenses. The bottle doesn't shatter, but the cap flies off. Beer gushes everywhere, down the wall and onto the floor, making a sticky brown trail. The bottle has left an ugly gash in the plaster.

Next door, Mrs. MacAlear whacks the wall with her broom.

Dad ignores Mrs. MacAlear's whacking. He looks at me. “Are you just going to stand there like a dummy? Or are you going to clean that mess up?”

chapter six

Amanda kicks me under the desk. “Uh, what?” I mumble, straightening up. I know from the sour taste in my mouth I must have dozed off.

“In order to calculate fifteen percent of four hundred and twenty, we need to begin by dividing four hundred and twenty by what number, Justin?” Mrs. Thompson is asking me.

I'm not bad in math, but I'm too tired to think. I've worked after school every day this week, plus an extra shift on Tuesday morning. Then there are all my house chores. My lower back is so sore that when my pencil falls to the floor, I ache too much to pick it up.

Amanda scribbles the number one hundred on the top corner of her notebook— and underlines it twice. “One hundred,” I say brightly.

“That's right,” Mrs. Thompson says. “And then we need to multiply by what number, Carleen?”

“Thanks,” I tell Amanda, mouthing the word. When she hands me my pencil, I give her a grateful nod.

Mrs. Thompson hands out a sheet of problems and explains how she wants us to work in pairs. How do I ask Amanda if she wants to be my partner?

What Mrs. Thompson says next makes me so happy I could kiss her powdery white face. “I want you to pair up by rows. Those of you sitting by the wall will have to—”

I'm not listening anymore. I'm moving my desk so it touches Amanda's.

Amanda turns to make sure Mrs. Thompson isn't hovering nearby. Then she draws some crisscross lines on the blank side of Mrs. Thompson's handout. “How 'bout a quick game of tic-tac-toe?”

“No way,” I tell her. “We're supposed to be doing math.”

Amanda turns the handout over, but I can tell she is not quite ready to get to work. “How come you're so tired lately?” she asks.

“I got this part-time job, working with dogs.”

“Cool. I love dogs. We have two schnauzers. Isabelle and Isidor. They're the cutest things ever. So do you work at the mall—in the pet shop?”

“Nope.”

“Dog walking?” she asks.

“Nope.”

“Well what then?”

I know we should be doing math, but I also want Amanda to know about the kind of work I do. “I got a job working with guard dogs.”

Amanda raises her eyebrows. They're the same color red as her hair. “Guard dogs? Aren't they vicious?”

“No way. They're pussycats,” I say. Then I think about Killer. “Well, mostly.”

“But they're trained to attack, right? So they have to be vicious…”

“They're not. It's more like they're… well…jumpy, you know, nervous. Nervous dogs make the best—”

“Justin, Amanda.” Mrs. Thompson frowns at us from under her glasses. “You are working on your percentages, aren't you?”

“Sure we are,” Amanda answers for us.

“We've got one more stop,” Floyd says once all the dogs have been dropped off at work sites. I don't dare complain. It's Friday, and I've been picturing the steaks— T-bones—I'm going to buy. That is if I get paid today, if Dad's wrong about Floyd and Vince taking advantage of me because I'm a kid.

The motion of the car is making me dozy. My eyelids feel heavy. I'm trying to stay awake, but it's hard. I feel Floyd watching me in the rearview mirror. “Kid's sleeping on the job,” I hear him tell Vince.

“Let him sleep,” Vince says. “He's not used to all that shoveling.”

I'm only half listening to their conversation now. “I got a call that our friend has some new stock,” Floyd tells Vince in a low voice.

“You got the cash for him?” Vince whispers back.

Floyd pats the pocket of his jeans. I'm awake enough to hope my money is there too.

“Terence has himself some sweet deal,” I hear Vince say as we cross a bridge that takes us off the island of Montreal. “He gets paid by the city, and then we pay him again.”

Floyd brings the van to a stop. We're parked behind a donut shop. “Nap time's over,” Floyd announces.

I try not to yawn as I follow Floyd and Vince out of the van. I don't want them to think I don't have the stamina for this job.

A small man with a round red face is waiting for us. He must be Terence. He is standing next to a small truck that says
Animal Control
on it. The truck has a cap on the back. The dogs must be in there.

“Who's that?” he asks when he sees me.

Floyd shrugs. “Just some kid we hired to scoop poop.”

“You sure he won't talk?” Terence asks.

“He's not the talking type,” Vince says.

Terence nods, but I can tell he's still not sure about me. He looks over his shoulder to make sure no one else is around. “I've got four dogs. All big and mean-lookin'.”

I'm starting to understand that guard dogs only need to look mean. It's different from actually being mean.

Floyd and Vince peer into the back of Terence's truck. “They look mean all right,” Floyd says, reaching into his pocket for the cash. Now I can see the dogs too. One is a scrawny-looking brown mutt. Terence was right. He looks mean.

“Okay, kid,” Floyd says, “show Terence here why we hired you. Get these dogs out of their crates and into ours. You should see this kid scoop poop, Terence. It's his specialty,” Floyd adds with a laugh.

“Hey, boy,” I tell the brown mutt as I unlatch his crate. He growls. I back away.

Floyd slaps my shoulder. “What are you—scared?”

“I'm not scared.” Only I am. Something tells me this dog has never had a rabies shot.

“Lemme give you a hand,” Vince says. Together we transfer the mutt into one of our crates. The dog settles down. Maybe he's so tired even a strange crate looks good right now.

The next dog is a German shepherd. Well fed, well groomed—what Smokey might look like if he'd had a different kind of life. This dog's eyes look confused. As if he wants to ask, what in the world is going on?

The next two could be brothers. They're mutts, but I can tell from their rust markings they have rottweiler blood.

I notice the collar when I'm sliding the last crate back into Terence's truck. A brand new green leather collar with silver stars. There's an id tag on it. I reach for the collar. It must belong to the German shepherd.

Floyd grabs my arm. “What do you think you're doing?” His voice is even sharper than usual. “Leave that right there.”

“Junkyard dogs don't need collars,” Terence says.

I let the collar fall from my hands. It lands without a sound on the carpeted floor of the truck. “I thought…”

“You don't think nothing,” Floyd tells me. “You were hired to scoop poop. Not to think.”

Though the letters on the id tag are upside down, I can see the name
Star
engraved on it. There's a phone number too, but I can't make it out.

One thing I know for sure is Star is not some stray. He's someone's pet. And somehow Terence got hold of him.

“You sure this kid's okay?” Terence asks.

“He's fine,” Floyd says, slapping my shoulder again. “Which reminds me, it's payday, ain't it, kid?” He pulls six crisp twenties from his front pocket.

I can practically taste that T-bone steak.

“So, you enjoying this line of work?” Floyd asks as he hands me the bills. I feel his eyes on my face.

The door to the back of our van is open. I hear a dog whimpering. Probably Star. I take the money and swallow hard. “Yes, sir,” I tell Floyd. “I sure am.”

chapter seven

Even my head is sweaty from shoveling. Now that I'm back in our building, I can take off my cap.

“Why hello, Justin.” Mrs. MacAlear pops out from behind the mailboxes.

“How are you, Mrs. MacAlear?” I ask, slipping my cap back on.

“Never mind me,” she says. “I'm an old woman. Young people like yourself are far more interesting. Your hair seems to be growing in.”

I feel my cheeks get hot. But Mrs. MacAlear is right about my hair. There's fuzzy hair filling in the bare patches. Maybe it's because I'm eating better—or because I'm less worried about how Dad and I are going to pay the bills.

“Have you seen our friend at the convenience store?”

It takes me a minute to realize Mrs. MacAlear means Smokey. “I didn't make it over there today. I had to work.”

“Which reminds me,” Mrs. MacAlear says, tapping the side of her head, “I have some things for you. Why don't you come along and I'll give them to you straightaway?”

I have never seen the inside of Mrs. MacAlear's apartment. From her doorway, I can see the apartment is packed with knickknacks—crystal vases and porcelain dolls are displayed on shelves, tables and even on the windowsills.

Mrs. MacAlear catches me checking the place out. “Would you like to come in?”

“Uh, maybe another time. My dad's waiting for me.”

Mrs. MacAlear disappears into her kitchen. She comes back with two shopping bags filled with empty bottles. “I thought you might want these.”

“Thanks a lot,” I tell her. “But are you sure you don't want to cash them in yourself?”

Mrs. MacAlear shoos me away. “You'd be doing me a favor if you took them,” she says. “Besides, this will give you an excuse to visit your friend.”

I'm nearly at the door to our apartment when Mrs. MacAlear calls me back. “I nearly forgot. I have this for you too.”

I leave the two bags on the floor. Mrs. MacAlear hands me a hardcover book. It smells old, and there's a cocker spaniel on the cover.

“It's a history of dogs. When I spotted it at the secondhand bookshop, I thought you might enjoy it.”

“Are you sure?” It's not like it's my birthday or anything.

“Of course I'm sure.” She reaches toward me. The veins on the outside of her hand are thick and blue. Without meaning to, I take a step back. When Mrs. MacAlear smiles, her eyes close for a second. Even her eyelids are wrinkled. “Let me know whether you like the book.”

“Where did that book come from?” Dad asks when I'm settled under the blanket reading.

“The woman next door gave it to me,” I say.

“The witch with the broom?” he asks.

“She's not a witch,” I say.

“We don't need anyone's charity.”

“It's not charity. It's a book about dogs,” I say.

Dad groans. He's not done arguing. “Shouldn't you be doing your homework— and not reading some book about dogs?”

“I finished all my homework.”

Dad adjusts the pillow on his side of the pullout couch. “So what does the book have to say anyhow?”

I turn to look at Dad, half expecting him to be rolling his eyes, but he isn't. “Well,” I tell him, “it says here the Latin name for dogs is
Canis lupus famil
—” It's not easy to speak Latin.

“
Familiaris
,” Dad says. “It means common.
Lupus
means wolf.”

“You know Latin?”

“I know a lot of stuff, Latin included.”