Shape of the Final Dog and Other Stories (9781101600665) (9 page)

You don't see people around here on a hot day wearing dark suits and a tie. I thought he was gonna try the door, but he was bending down to slip something under it. This was no Jehovah's Witness or a salesman, plus he had a black car out on the street waiting for him.

I had a bad sense he knew I was inside. Then he backs away, goes down the steps to the street. He looked at the house again, then gets into the car.

There's another guy behind the wheel. You can tell by the way some people drive away that there's a good chance they'll be back.

The card said
C. S. CLECKLEY / CONSULTANT / SANTINO & SONS, PUBLIC RELATIONS
. In little black letters at the bottom there was two addresses, one was London, the other Washington, D.C. I knew Sister had no dealings with people like that; for sure I didn't. Made me think of Doc's circumcision story, the idea being, one bad thing follows another. I was right not to answer the door; you need time to consider with something like this.

Turned out to be a long day not being able to leave the house. I tried to get Sister to walk up the block so I could see if anybody was watching, but she wouldn't do it. After a while we all go upstairs for a nap. I didn't get to sleep a minute before she's in the doorway whispering that there's somebody out front again.

I don't know why she's so scared, it's our house—but enough was enough, so I go down to see what the hell's going on. I peek through the window. Nobody there. I tell her the coast is clear, but she wouldn't come down till I checked out the porch. Fine. I go out on the porch. Look left, look right, then there it is, that black car's parked down at the end of the block.

I whip around to get back in the house and there's Mister Cleckley, sitting on the wicker rocker. Didn't look like a guy who ever played football or shot anybody, not any kind of cop for sure, too quiet and polite, gets to his feet apologizing for surprising me. Only thing I didn't like about him, aside from his being there, was that he kind of acted like a blind man who could really see.

He told me his name, which I already knew, and said he'd been around earlier but come back so he could ask me some questions on something we could help each other on, asked if he could come inside a minute so we could talk. I knew if I said no it was the wrong way to go, he'd think I was hiding something. It was hot and he said he was thirsty, wondered if I might give him a glass of water. I did him one better. How about a lemonade? Said it pretty loud so Sister could get the picture and Mot wasn't gonna make any noise so I showed him in.

I know he knows I know something's up, but we go ahead like it isn't. I offer him a seat, but before I can get his lemonade he tells me he's looking for a man. An African from somewhere I never heard of, and he's laying out the details. This guy, he called him Colonel Motowi, was doing some business up in New York City and either he had a stroke or got into a jam with people trying to kill him, or both.

Whatever Cleckley was trying to clear up was coming out the opposite, far as I was concerned. Then he takes a photo out of his pocketbook to show me. I give it a look, but not really; didn't wanna get involved.

Cleckley's hard to read, wants to know if there's anybody else in the house. How do I know what kind of technology he might have on his body? Playing it safe I call Sister my aunt, tell him she's sick upstairs and I just come in from Shreveport to lend a hand, then I go get the lemonade, which turns out to be a pitcher of ice tea that Sister made before we went upstairs for that nap we didn't take.

I was getting the notion Cleckley was not what he said he was, but if he wanted to be the smart guy, fine, I'd be the dum-dum, and that's what I acted like. It took about five minutes to tell the story he had on this Motowi, but it felt like an hour. When I was in the kitchen I knew he'd be having a look around, but so would I. Sure enough, out the back window I spotted his wheelman coming out of the tobacco shed. And there's Auto on the other side of the yard, head down, pretending he's eating grass. If these boys thought they were a step ahead, they were wrong.

Getting sociable over the ice tea, which he never touched, I ask him what the C. and S. stand for on the card he left me. First name Clark, middle one Shepster, he says. Quite a snazzy name, I felt like saying but didn't. I let him do the talking.

He tells me this Motowi was known to eat the organs of his enemies. “Enemies of the state” is how he put it. Could have asked what state, but I didn't; I knew it wasn't Wisconsin. That this Motowi personally killed and ate a guy from Denmark for instance, but what knocked the wheels off his wagon was the money he took. Cleckley told me they had a saying over there: You can milk the cow so long as you keep feeding it. And Motowi didn't. I almost told him we had sayings like that over here too, but right then I couldn't think of any.

I ask how much this Motowi got away with. He said more money than could be determined yet. True, Mot had some money in his pants, but not an amount that couldn't be determined yet. And how come Cleckley's telling Joe Blow classified info unless he was feeding me a bill of goods?

According to him, Motowi was wanted for murder, rape, and cannibalism, but this undetermined amount of money is all Cleckley was interested in. Motowi traveled through international airspace and now he's gotta face justice, he said, but that wasn't his main concern; his job was to get that money back. I was tempted to give him a look, show Cleckley a man who never killed nothing but a bee. But if I did that, chances was he'd say Mot was the man he was looking for.

Over there they called this Motowi the Black Weasel, which in that country translates into a mongoose, a snake killer, he says, then shows me that photo again. Big black guys in photographs, especially in fancy military outfits, look a lot alike, I tell him.

Then he pulls out a short, dark string, looked like a shoelace, had a knot in it. This is from one of his shoes, he says. Mot didn't have shoes, except the ones I gave him, and those laces were white. That put me back in the driver's seat, and I draw attention to my own footwear. Hush Puppies with Velcro bands. No laces. That weakened his case, and he smiled a little. Needing a new idea, he asks me how come I think this Motowi killed so many of his own people. That's something you ask yourself, isn't it? Not myself I don't. Although I was tempted to ask if there was a reward—but you can't go one step further if you can't hold yourself back, and I put a lid on it.

He thanked me for the ice tea and my cooperation, said he was gonna go further south, look around down there. Right. I knew he was coming back, probably with a search warrant. Like Doc used to say, a man who wants to rent a pig is gonna be hard to stop. Till right then I never really understood what that meant.

Cleckley never said how he found me, and I didn't ask. From the start I knew Mot was gonna be trouble; anything worth it usually is. All the bones we got are the same after the skin comes off, but till that happens you can't help but be on your own side. Except these days I had Mot's side to be on too. And I didn't forget that. He was the best friend I ever had.

I whistled all clear and Sister brought Mot down. He even went over and looked out the window. Never saw him do that before. Of course she had questions, some I answered, some I didn't. I thought of those lotto tickets and that business with Big Al up in New York—all along I'd been having the feeling I was being watched, but was pretty sure that Cleckley and his gang weren't part of that.

Even considered a visit to Mister Fig, whose first name turns out to be Ernest, which gave me a little more confidence in him. Sister and me discussed it, but I was in the dark on this matter and still am. A person goes too fast, he can get punished; too slow, the same thing. What I was trying to do is stay somewhere in between. I made sure the doors and windows were locked and we stayed inside.

I rolled the TV away from where it was so no light could get seen through the curtains and we settled in. After sundown Auto sometimes brays a bit—likes to let everybody know he's still there, but he was quiet too. All of us in full cooperation, but I knew they were coming back, and when they did, if I didn't put Mot where Cleckley wasn't, I might lose him.

I did tell Sister that Cleckley and his gang were looking for some African guy who did in a lot of people, just eradicated 'em. A good word, but nothing Mot ever did. Sis agreed. Asked me how he found me. Never asked, I told her, because if I had of I wouldn't of got a straight answer.

Also didn't tell her about the last thing Motowi did before he hit the road was to tie up a certain number of his enemies on the banks of a river full of crocs. Then him and his cronies sat back sipping ice tea and watched the show. Ice tea is what he said too. Right after I brought it to him. Two and two make four, but it wasn't adding up. Cleckley was not to be trusted. Except for Mot, I never met a man who was. All of 'em are bullshitters, not worth the skin they're made of. I include myself in that deal. Sometimes I'd like nothing more than to shoot myself in the mouth, just blow my asshole head right off the top of my neck.

But even if there was a reward, I don't think I'd wanna give him up for it. I was just curious. And besides, I did figure something out, and once you got a plan in place with a measure of confidence to it you can sleep like a cat, and that's what I did.

Before sunup I get Mot up and we went downstairs. He thought we were gonna have breakfast but there was no time for that. First thing I needed was a good sturdy straw. There was a box of 'em in the kitchen Sister used to use for her root beer floats she didn't drink anymore. Then outside and into the shed for a shovel. Auto was curious, started to follow us out, but I shut the door on him, didn't want him seeing where Mot was gonna be.

Morning was coming, so I was required to do it fast. Dug a hole a few inches wider and a little longer than Mot, about up to my knee. Looked like the start of a grave, but was exactly the opposite.

I tied his hands behind his back, blindfolded him too. Not just so dirt didn't get in his eyes—same principle as covering a cage of birds so they stay calm through the night. I held up a finger even though he couldn't see it and said Stay! just like we did on Doc's roof.

But I had a time getting him to lie down in there. Had to trip him. Then I put the straw in his mouth to breathe through—he tried to eat it and I had to give him a slap to make him understand—and then I started shoveling. Soon's he felt the dirt on him he stopped squirming, and I realized it wasn't just the shot Doc gave him back on the roof that kept him calm, it was his nature.

There's times you gotta give people the stony treatment or they'll walk on you. Never with Mot. One of the things I liked most about him was his ability to go along with things. Most everybody'd got a chip on their shoulder. Not Mot: big shoulders, but no chips.

I think he actually felt good in there. Like bread in the oven. But I knew I couldn't leave him down there for more than a day. I'd give Cleckley and his boys a tour of the area, if it came to that, show 'em I had nothing to hide, and they'd be on their way.

Sister was up, sitting in the kitchen having her coffee, wanted to know what was going on, where Mot was. I told her I'd put him where Cleckley couldn't find him. Made her nervous talking about Cleckley, she thought he was gone, well he is, but if he comes back I was ready for him, I tell her, and change the subject. We talked dental care. About Mot handling a toothbrush. Either that or stop breathing through his mouth. He had great teeth but his breath wasn't good.

Not being used to the dark in the daytime, we could hear Auto braying in the shed. She wants to know how come he's in there. I tell her he was being punished and when his time was up I'd let him out. She didn't wanna know any more.

I go get ready for what could happen next. Went upstairs for a bath and a shave, then I sit down at Mama's dresser to see what Cleckley would see when he saw me. Like looking out a window looking back at myself, and I looked pretty good. Right then I hear the door of the tobacco shed bang. I go to the window and see Auto got out. He looks up, sees me looking at him. I could tell he'd done something wrong, like snatched Mot's straw and turns out that's exactly what he did.

I go down to save Mot, but before I can get out the back, the doorbell rings. I tell Sister to answer it but she runs upstairs to hide. It's either I go to the front door or go out the back to get Mot out before he suffocates.

I go out the back and there's Cleckley's wheelman standing by what was the hole that Mot was buried in. I say “was” because you could see he got himself out. He was gone. There was a lot of mysteries in this deal, but I think a man who gets himself out of a hole blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back probably has a future in front of him.

T
he whole thing of it, like most things, was both good and bad. On the one hand, we weren't in any trouble, but on the other, Mot was gone and I was pretty sure he was never coming back. It was a blow we might never get over. Who knows? But the air seemed pretty much cleared up, and Sister felt free to walk the streets again.

I put the TV back where it belonged and we were able to relax, but like I said, there was an empty spot. Then it was the old question of where to go and what comes next. It turned out I was right about Cleckley; he did have electronics on him. Everything I said was recorded, but since I didn't say much there was nothing much they could do except have another crack at me. Which they did. I had to go to Biloxi for that. They even sent a car. The guy who drove it was a local and we stopped for lunch, which was on them. Then in this little office, hardly anything in it except a phone and a desk, Cleckley asks me if I was willing to swear I'd never seen this Motowi before and showed me that photo again. What's the point of swearing to something I never saw? I said, and that was it. But I was glad I went. On the way back I stopped in a shop and bought Sister a dress. It was a toss-up about the size, but I got a good eye; it was a perfect fit. A nice wool dress—even though it was summer she was glad to have it, gave her something to look forward to.