Shape of the Final Dog and Other Stories (9781101600665) (18 page)

What are you dickweeds doing?

Savoring the importance of his own arrival, he waited for a response. They all stepped on one another trying to tell him what just happened. Borrego knew what had happened, he'd been watching, told them get back to the Snake Pit or go home to bed. He would handle things now.

He was trying to fuck her, Bill!

Borrego wasn't going to say it again. Beat the shit out of this guy then run back to the Snake Pit and tell Borrego is what they wanted to do, and now here was Borrego telling them not to. They didn't know what to do. They evil-eyed Zackary, and one of them grumbled, another one spit, then they obeyed.

Zackary and Borrego watched the three slink off across the street, then without looking at him, Borrego said:

Got any complaints about the Firefly?

Zackary wasn't sure what he was talking about.

You mean the motel?

If you do, I'd be the one to tell.

Zack stared at him—why would he be the one to tell?

I own it.

Borrego was puffed up and sly; was he waiting for a compliment? Zackary decided to be careful.

I thought fireflies were an eastern insect, didn't know you had 'em out here.

Yeah, we got 'em. Firefly ain't really even a fly. What they are is soft-bodied beetles that light up when they get horny.

Zackary wasn't sure if things were getting better or they just got worse. Borrego was looking right at him.

You probably think I'm coldhearted, right?

Why would I think that?

I mean back at the bar. I was watching you. A guy in your position is used to people trying to get something off him. You gotta protect yourself, I understand that.

He came closer.

Those boys aren't old enough to know who you are, or else they'd be running home saying, “Guess who I saw?!” Be asking for your autograph. I'm Bill.

He clapped his hands a couple times and grinned.

What do you say we go over and have a drink?

It wasn't a good time to say no. Back to the Snake Pit, Borrego telling him the score.

A man like yourself can't be expected to know how things work in a place like this. This ain't Beverly Hills. Gonna hit on somebody else's girl, you best not be doing it in the parking lot. You'd have done better sneaking it back into the Firefly.

Zackary followed him into the Snake Pit. Except for Bob and the boys, the place was still empty. Borrego guided Zackary to a table.

Bob brought over a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Borrego poured one for his guest and one for himself.

Whiskey's okay?

Yeah, it's fine.

Here's to little Reed Fingley.

Clink and down the hatch. Borrego poured again.

Discouraged, Bonehead, Peewee, and Ratbreath watched from the bar. Zackary gave a glance. They looked away. Borrego snorted.

They wanted to kick your ass.

They should join the army.

You're right. The little one wants to, wants to go in the Marines. The other one there, he tried, but they're not gonna take him. And the big one, he's got something wrong with his feet. But things get bad enough, who knows, they could take him.

Zackary relaxed a bit, not because of the whiskey—he didn't like it—but because show-dog dipsos were familiar territory, and Borrego was definitely that.

You know how long Fingley's been waiting for somebody who could understand what the hell he's talking about? You see how glad he was?

Reed?

Yep, you made him happy.

Tell the truth, Bill, I wasn't exactly sure what he was talking about.

He thought you were, that's the important part, right?

I guess he just needed somebody to talk to.

Hey, we talk to him. It's him that's not supposed to talk.

What do you mean?

Not good for him, hasn't got the wind. You didn't notice? Fucker can't breathe.

Asthma?

The other one. Can't be out more than an hour, he's gotta get back to his trailer, got this apparatus in there. Oxygen.

Emphysema?

Borrego gave him a sharp two-fingered salute. Zackary waited for the next thing, but Borrego just stared at him. It was Zackary's turn.

What about his dog?

He's dead.

Yeah, that's what he said.

Let me tell you something, Mr. Ray; a guy like that, don't be surprised one night he goes out, sets fire to one of them colleges he got fired from. Settle the score. I wouldn't be surprised it was him that killed his dog.

Why would he do that?

Like I said.

Dogs get old and die, Bill.

Right. And sometimes they get ground glass.

Borrego being funny, and it was. Zackary grinned.

Inspired, Borrego leaned closer, nailing him with his hooded brown eyes, started snapping his fingers, jackhammering the floor with his foot, slapping the table with his other hand, setting the beat for what was about to come. It came in a gravelly deep voice—Johnny Cash, but tuneless as an auctioneer and just as fast.

You come to a place like this you don't have a clue meet a guy like me you wonder how its gonna be the boys at the bar starting to pout how in the hell is this gonna work out and smarty-pants Fingley you're so worried about waiting in his trailer for his lungs to give out you hunt with the buzzards and run with the hounds sneaking through the desert like a dickheaded clown then caught in the lot like a dirty little wimp but really what it is is a
Photoplay
chimp looking for a cantaloupe so don't tell the tiger she can't eat the antelope . . .

Then he was on his feet, fluttering one hand over his head, marching in place, accelerating the words.

You swam and you sneezed you got down on your knees and what did you think they wouldn't make a stink. Everybody right everybody wrong that's the truth in this little song one thing sure and the rest is lies if you don't smell sweet you won't get the meat won't get to eat Arvid Toby's pretty little sweet I'm slapping my hand stabbing my heal I stiffen I sag I'm giving you chills the Good Book don't say we once had gills but whatever it is we bark and we squeal and steal the pies unzip your fly with fire in the eye in the back of your car where the movies lie . . .

Not missing a beat, he sat back down and went on. And on.

The boys at the bar couldn't watch. They'd seen it before, but this time
the old girl
(that's what they called him behind his back) was outdoing himself, taking it to extremes. Bob, the barman, had disappeared, gone into a back room to get away.

Whatever it was, it would be talked about—a Snake Pit scandal.

Zackary tried to stay detached; it wasn't easy. The rapid pork of Borrego's self-regard embarrassed him, and a part of him was afraid Borrego knew it, knew what he was really thinking. But also he was captivated and paid better than just courteous attention, especially when the doggerel degenerated into gibberish, into an alien language, and he got the sense Borrego's performance was an act of defiance aimed at the absence of a larger clarity. But the last line was shouted distinctly in English, right into his ear.

Blow out your eardrums with a bledsoe horn Movie Man!

This made Zackary laugh, and that was that. The song was sung. Borrego finished what was left in his glass and said:

Drive me home, please.

Relief all around. Zackary tried to pay for the whiskey, but Borrego wouldn't have it. It's taken care of, he said. They went out into the heat, got in the Buick.

Driving south. No moon, a million stars, but not enough to give the desert any help. It was black except for the cataract of road in the headlights. Zackary was looking at that. Borrego was looking at him.

You know why they don't have any pyramids in Tennessee?

Zackary didn't have an answer and hoped Borrego wasn't starting up again.

Because Christians, even if you whip 'em, wouldn't've hauled all that limestone. Right?

The man was drunk, if not insane. Zackary pictured himself about to die and there was nothing he could do about it. Dumped in the desert with a bullet in his head. This was the road to Mexico. And it didn't have any houses on it.

How much farther to your place, Bill?

We're just driving.

Borrego had a big throat, and it took a while to clear it. He did it for about a mile before he spoke again.

Those boys would of kicked your ass if I hadn't of stepped in.

That went without saying, so Zackary didn't say anything. Borrego did.

What about “recursive”?

Recursive what?

Reed. Heard him say it—didn't say it today, but . . . what's it mean?

I'm not sure, Bill, depends how it's used.

Swear words?

No, probably meant it in some kind of mathematical way. About repeating something.

Those boys would have kicked your ass really bad if I hadn't of showed up.

I used to box a bit, but probably you're right, they would of kicked my ass.

Believe it!

I do.

You think I wanna suck your cock?

What?

Zackary tried to laugh. Borrego didn't. He was waiting for a better answer.

No! Why would I think that?

Never entered your mind?

No!

The screech of his own voice shocked him, and he didn't hear what Borrego just said.

What?

I said turn it around! I wanna go back.

A little part of him was almost hurt, but Zackary was thrilled to hear it. He slowed down fast, then, careful not to go off the road and be trapped in the sand, he turned the Buick around.

They didn't look at each other and nobody said a thing. Borrego chewed on his thumb; he had a hangnail, or acted like he did. Zackary tried not to drive over eighty. He couldn't wait to be alone again. After he dropped Borrego off, he'd leave what he left at the Firefly and go straight through the night back to Brentwood, a free man.

They pulled up in front of the Snake Pit and Borrego got out, didn't say a thing. Zackary watched him walk to the front door. It was locked. He pulled a key out of his pants, opened the door, and went in.

S
omething woke him up. A vibration. Zackary didn't know what it was. Or where he was. Then he did. It was thunder. He was in the Buick in front of the Snake Pit. It was raining. His shoulder was wet. He rolled up the window. The storm had come down from the mountains, was moving east. In a minute it was gone. He lit a cigarette, rolled down the window
.

He drove a block to the China Diner, slowed, but didn't stop. No reason to; it was closed. Not just for the night. He went straight, turned right. Nothing. Made a U-turn, drove another couple blocks, and saw it. The El Dorado trailer park. He would say he had come to get that manual on histograms, the martini too. He was sure Reed Fingley wouldn't be there. Zackary was three years late.

A line from a play he saw when he was in high school came to him. A line he sometimes remembered and liked to say. It was a fiery lawyer, a Clarence Darrow type, said it defending the life of his innocent client, a quote from William Penn: “They have a right to censure that have a heart to help. The rest is cruelty, not justice.”

Zackary whispered it, then rapped again on the aluminum door. And waited.

Jean was her name! Suddenly it came to him. The waitress's name was Jean. Married to Arvid Toby by now, if he wasn't killed in Vietnam. By this time probably she'd seen Zackary in a rerun and has had sad, dreamy thoughts of having been kissed by a movie star. In her excitement she must've shared it with somebody. How could she not? Her sister maybe.

But Reed? Nobody answered. The trailer was empty. Zackary looked around at the dripping yard.

A lemon tree, Reed had said, but Zackary didn't see any lemon tree. Either it died or had been cut down. Royal Gallant was supposed to be buried under it. If so, there wouldn't be much left of him, maybe a little fur, some teeth, and the bones.

K
ard had a good mind for what he did, but certain words were lost to him, words he heard but couldn't say. Like
breakfast
, couldn't put the sound and the concept together, not that he needed to, he never ate in the morning. Kard was not temperamental and had a high tolerance for pain, soft-spoken and nice to look at, basically obliging, but he had his limits. His small, perfect ears, for instance, were so sensitive, loud noises could unsettle him and trigger violence.

He knew three jokes but never had occasion to tell them. They were in the manual under tactics. About a dog who did something funny with its tail. About a Greek who was hit on the head by a tortoise dropped by an eagle. About something that ended with “Frog legs are funny, but not in a frying pan.” And a fourth about a short man who had knowledge of small creatures made of tar, kept them in a drawer and kissed them every night before he went to bed. Kard liked that one, but hadn't memorized it yet. Machines with genes, technical things he understood.

In the waiting room, waiting for his appointment with Inspector Queen, Kard heard a noise down the hall he did not understand. He knew how to get through doors that were locked, and he did. What he found in the otherwise empty room was a chair facing an eighteen-inch speaker. Above it, there was a photo of a duck. Every ten seconds there was the sound of a quack. He listened awhile, then turned to see who was standing behind him.

This is an off-limits area, Queen said, but I'm proud of you for getting in. He told Kard he could listen another twenty minutes, then come down to his office for instructions and maybe a chat. Against the grain like a saw is how Queen usually went, but not with Kard. A soft spot is what he had; Kard was his favorite tracker.

Kard was competent and young, but not really driven, not yet, that would come in time. Also he had a crooked smile. It looked cordial, but he didn't mean it. It just happened, it was a tic.

Between cell fate manipulation and the zygote activators it got confusing, and Kard needed monitoring on occasion. Nothing was his; all he had was his job, and he wasn't always convinced he had that. Queen had said that being unconvinced was the backbone of it all. Life was a blood race of love against envy. Kard had no idea what that meant. He didn't have the capacity to be baffled, and he never had a friend. For that matter, neither had Queen. But sometimes Kard was curious and sometimes Queen shook his hand for this.

If the cause you serve isn't better than you are, you got the wrong job, Queen told him. That was a slogan that made sense. Another one they liked was, Survival of the fittest means destruction of the duds. Killing dupes keeps you from becoming one. Remember that. Kard did. He was pretty sure that it made no difference where one person ended and another began. His mind was as tight and flat as a prisoner's bed.

Give yourselves up, Steelheads,
was a proclamation that hadn't worked. They were stubborn and would rather hide or die than be dismantled. In this case the
dupe
(department slang for
duplicant
, i.e., steelhead) was PFC Sapper Morton, a deserter who had been spotted working in a potato field southwest of Winnipeg.

Inspector Queen sat at his desk with his midday meal, a bowl of rice and mock snails he ate with Chinese eating sticks, and said, It's this chink mush until my new stomach comes in. Then he clarified the details of the assignment until Kard had absorbed them. A Sergeant Falling Horse of the Royal Mounted would meet him at the border and fly him in.

Kard had to go home and get ready for the trip, but Queen kept him a little longer, so they could chat. It was straight from the manual, the idea being to encourage not making mistakes in the future by recalling ones made in the past. A mistake Kard had made with an old man who owned a snake, for instance.

Do you remember a plank house sunk to its windows in sand?

Kard remembered it.

The old man who lived there?

Kard remembered the old man. He had been living there alone a long time.

Under the picture of a dog on the wall what did he have?

Kard remembered a seven-foot rattlesnake in a cage and near it a broken-down piano he didn't know if the old man could play.

Steelheads sometimes offered him food. Kard took their jaws, but not the soup—it felt wrong somehow. But not this time. The old man offered him nothing.

And no dupe he ever interviewed kept a snake.

What? Watch this!
The old man screamed.

And, to show Kard his power, stuck his hand in the cage. The snake coiled and buzzed, then it bit him. The old man yanked his arm out and howled. Then fell down and couldn't breathe.

But Kard's mistakes were few, and well within the margins of error, plus he was a good listener, an ear in the museum of Queen's ideas. In a squad meeting once Queen announced, This is my boy! And put his arm around Kard. That was something Kard would never forget.

You looked at the snake awhile, then you left, Queen said.

I was pretty sure a snake couldn't kill a steelhead.

So the old man was just an old man and you didn't have to report it? What else don't you report?

Queen waited, but Kard didn't say.

What about the little blind lady you tried to sell a hamster to? She said she was afraid to touch it and asked you to describe it please. His name is Chunks, you said, and he's got a short tail. He won't bite. Go ahead, he likes you.

He does?

You thought you made her believe it. He's clean, you said. Sleeps all day and very nice at night. He likes to hide. He comes with a box. Touch him.

A soft animal is hard to find, she said. Then, with a bony finger, she touched it. There was a spark. The blind lady bristled. You went for your weapon, a Fermium Six I think it was, but even blind, she was quick and almost got you.

More or less, that's what Kard had said in the report. It was a good report. He didn't hold back.

He never told Queen about Shee. He didn't have to, Queen already knew, but it was good policy to let Kard have one—a secret. So Queen never pressed it. He went back to the subject.

Information on Sapper Morton had come south from a man called Hinge. The following day Kard would go north to act on it. That was it for the chat.

In the bigger picture, hybridized steelheads would be the next step, but before composites of the new model could achieve nexus, the old ones had to be destroyed. For the most part, they were not a problem, but the ones who ran away were more complex. If the dead were still pretty, you killed the right one.
Pretty
was department slang for
posthumously unchanged
. Kard had never asked why.

At home Kard dreamed he found a silver dog whistle buried in the ground. The ground was hard and white, like snow. He blew the whistle as hard as he could, but there was no sound, it summoned nothing.

On nights when he couldn't sleep, he looked at himself in the mirror. Or took a walk. Once he was followed by a man who wanted something and pawed at him, yelled at him. Kard beat the man badly, almost to death. But there was no consolation to it. He got that from Queen. Also from Shee.

Shee was the most beautiful person he had ever seen, but he was never sure that he had seen her. He could feel her, he could hear her. He could tell her he didn't have much to tell, and it felt good—Shee was the mystery of his comfort. But less so lately; it was changing.

Nobody finds anything they don't already know, is what Shee said. And sometimes told him what would happen next. And sometimes it did. Like a brick through the window of himself. But it was changing.

And there were ideas he had that he couldn't explain. Even the old ideas. His clothes, for instance. Not that he didn't like them, he didn't care. From time to time he was told to improve his appearance, get a new suit or have the old one cleaned. Why? His access to privilege was so marginal. Shee tried to help him with these things, and a part of him was tempted to tell her you're either the product of a mother or just a product—instead he told her she was a woman. How did he know?

You were made from one.

I was made of many things.

He would tell her he knew what she looked like.

Is it the picture you carry in your mind?

He would show her the picture in his mind.

Shee would tell him stories about himself, and inspired him to think of how it could be. It took bringing her to mind sincerely, but it had begun to hurt and he didn't want to do it anymore. Kard was changing.

Queen knew about this, the little ups and the downs, and so far, all was fine. Kard had been tested and came out verified every time. But there was always a next time, of not being sure.

If the dead were still pretty, you killed the right one.

There was a number tattooed on the underside of his biceps. Kard had looked it up, but the number meant so many things the information confused him.

He went to Queen, who told him to take off his shirt so he could look. For one thing it's the birth year of Alexander the Great, Queen had said, but that's not what it means. He said that 323 was a gene from the
Homo sapiens
family B. A protein code that contained two phosphotyrosine-binding domains that functioned in accord with signal transduction. Then he laughed and told Kard to put his shirt back on.

Kard packed up his Evaluator and his short-barreled Fermium. The Evaluator weighed just over a pound, six dials, a screen, and a switch. It fit like a snail in the shell of his briefcase. Except for his weapon and the manual, that's all he carried. First the evaluation, then the kill.

Up U.S. 52 to Dugway, North Dakota, just short of the Canadian border, in a rental. He had trawled for runaway steelheads in the boonies before, but never so far north. It was a novelty to his skin.

Things closed up when the sun went down, so Kard spent the night in the car. The melt and blur of simple subjects, like cups on a shelf—it was easy sitting still. When the morning came back, he moved.

A sanatorium called Agnew is where he located Hinge. It was crummy and cold, not a good place to talk, so Kard got a day pass and took him to lunch.

At the cafeteria, Hinge, who was Dutch and good with a pen, traced out an aerial view of a tiny shack and a tractor on a long furrowed field he drew on a napkin. Kard put it in his pocket. Then Hinge's daughter came in. Doris was fat and wanted to eat.

She told Kard a barbecue story. Hinge had given her a cookout to celebrate her sixteenth and caught himself on fire grilling a fish. It felt like an old father-and-daughter routine, both of them grinning waiting for Kard to ask the next question. Kard asked, Who put him out? He asked Hinge, Who put you out?

Nobody! cried Hinge, because Doris and her mom couldn't stop laughing. Hinge laughed harder than Doris, and pulled up his shirt to show Kard the scars. When they were done eating, Doris went somewhere to shop and Kard took Hinge back to Agnew.

Kard crossed the border for his rendezvous with Sergeant Falling Horse at the North-West Mounted Police Department. There were some papers they showed him that he didn't have to sign, because it was already done. Kard gave Falling Horse the napkin and got in his truck; then they drove to the field.

Falling Horse wore the blue tunic, but not the hat; his hair was black as a brush. He was large, but wore the boots of a child. Kard saw the bottle of raspberry vodka he kept under the seat.

Kard didn't think Indians were supposed to talk very much, but Falling Horse never stopped. Even talked about the trees they passed on the road.

Each of them trees is worth two hundred dollars, he shouted. When you see a lot of trees like this it means there's plenty of water. Some say, Bullshit, there's no water, not in a hundred miles of here! But they'd be dead wrong. You see those bitches going up the road back there?

Kard had not.

Whole gang of 'em. They run together!

You mean girls?

No! Dogs! Real ones.

Kard didn't believe it. Falling Horse wasn't making sense, he talked to make noise.

I was eighteen months overseas. I don't go talking about it except with people who been there. You been there?

No.

And they can tell if I'm lying too.

Why would they think you were lying?

Because this was back in the war. Back when all the blues came from Toronto. I could play single string with the best of 'em. I need to stop at a store.

They did stop. Kard stayed in the car, and an hour later they were in the air.

There was a wind-shear condition, but it didn't bother Falling Horse; he knew what he was doing even though he couldn't get the heater to work. He asked Kard if he could fly, just in case something went wrong—Falling Horse was a joker.

What if I have a heart attack?

Kard did know how to fly, but didn't say anything.

As they got higher the pitch of the turbo got thinner, sounded like a motorbike, and it got colder. Falling Horse once in a while had a glance at the napkin to make sure to get where they were going. And in less than an hour they did.

Cold, somber terrain plowed and planted for potatoes, miles of it. A tractor down there rising and falling over the furrows. At twelve feet off the ground, a little black dog appeared and gave chase. Falling Horse hovered the spinner, then softly, in a puff of dust, touched down. The dog had a bad front leg, stiff as a stick. Yapping and snapping, but keeping a distance, it circled the spinner. The hatch slid open and Kard climbed out.

Ten years ago the whole area was forest, but people couldn't eat trees, so now it's potatoes, is what Horse said. Kard told him to stay in the spinner, keep an eye on things, and walked away. Horse drank what was left of the vodka and fell asleep.

On his way to the cabin, Kard stopped to look at the dog. It was pointy-eared and watchful. It stared back for a few moments, then turned away, sat down in the dirt to watch the fields. He waited for it to turn again and look at him. It didn't.