The Long Good Boy (10 page)

I even sent Dashiell to find a ball. He disappeared up the stairs, Clint standing near me, his head cocked, waiting. When I heard Dashiell at the top of the stairs, I told him, “Out,” and watched Clint back up and bark as the ball bounced down the wooden steps and rolled onto the basement floor. When he got it, I sent Dash for another, so that both dogs could retrieve while I shuffled work and play for Clint, getting longer and longer periods where he'd sit quietly and watch me, waiting for the signal to cut loose again.

When the box was ready I carried it upstairs, both dogs rushing on ahead of me, each with a ball in his mouth. I set the box in the doorway to my bedroom, blocking the space on either side of it with books so that Clint couldn't simply go around it, piling more books on top so that it wouldn't move and he couldn't see over the top. Then I took his ball, put it on the other side of the box, in the bedroom, and held the flap up and out of the way so that he could see it and get to it unhindered. Nothing like easy success to build confidence. In minutes Clint was playing the new game, tearing through the tunnel into the bedroom, snagging the ball, and waiting to be called back, my little Einstein.

I gave the dogs a yard break, grabbed a soda, and stood outside huddled in my jacket while I drank it and watched them play. Then I called them back upstairs. Putting Dashiell on a down, lowering the piece of felt, and dropping the ball with an audible thump on the far side of the box, I sent Clint through. His nose twitched. He lowered his head. He poked his nose under the felt, hesitated, and pushed through. This time, I didn't call him back. I wanted him to figure it out for himself, that when the job was done, he needed to get his butt back to me as fast as possible. I closed my eyes and began to count silently. By the time I'd mouthed “two,” there he was. He dropped the ball in my lap, backed up, and barked. I sent it down the hall and listened to it thumping down the stairs, Clint after it as fast as he could go, wondering how much Chi Chi played with him, or if instead he just got to sit and watch her nod off on ketamine after a hard night's work.

I padded downstairs, coming in third in a field of three, filled the water bowl, and gave each dog a biscuit. Then I went back up to my office and called my cousin Richie, trying hard to figure out, as I listened to the phone ring and then his outgoing message, Streisand singing “People,” why I had no recollection of his father's funeral.

“Richie, it's Rachel Kaminsky,” I said, not sure he'd know the name I'd earned the old-fashioned way, by marrying and divorcing a Jewish dentist. “I got your number from your mom, and—”

“Rachel fucking Kaminsky? Be still my heart.”

I laughed. “I didn't know if you'd know—”

“My mother talks about you a lot, Rachel. She says you're like the daughter she never had.”

“Oh. Sorry about that.”

“I know what you mean. I assumed
I
was the daughter she never had. At least, I've been trying to be. But what's a girl to do? You know you can never please these Jewish women. Speaking of which—”

“Yeah. A dentist,” I said. “I wasn't able to score a doctor.”

“Me, neither. Well, better luck next time. I lived with an accountant for eight months. I thought that would please the old bitch. After all, he did her taxes free.”

“And?”

“Saved her four hundred and thirty dollars.”

I whistled. “Impressive.”

“In more ways than one.”

I waited for more. A remark like that, there's bound to be more.

“Your dentist fool around on you?”

“Oh,” I said.

“Well?”

“Not that I know of.”

“He smack you around?”

“No.”

“Oh, I've got it, he was a heavy drinker, am I right? Spent his time in bars, or in front of the TV with a scotch and soda in his hand, growing meaner by the minute?”

“No. Not that either.”

“How curious. But you dumped him anyway, an income like that? Shame, shame. Come on now, tell your cousin, what
did
he do?”

“He wanted me to cook dinner.”

“The filthy beast!”

“It was a little more complicated than that.”

Richie laughed. “It always is. So, is this a social call? Let's see, we haven't spoken since we were seven, I think. Didn't we play doctor on the back porch that summer, or was that some other slut?”

“Rich, I called to ask you something to help me with the work I'm doing now. I've been hired by three transvestite hookers after one of their friends got her throat slit.” There was silence on the line. I had a feeling the light banter was over for now. “I'm trying to understand—”

“Why transvestites get themselves killed? That's easy. No one likes them. Not even their own parents.”

“But Ceil said—” This time he didn't have to interrupt. This time I stopped myself.

I heard ice cubes dropping into a glass. “The lady doth protest too much. You know what I mean? She's a little too loud, a little too effusive. But she tries. She can't help who she is.” There was a silence on the line, then Richie was back. “How about dear old Auntie Beatrice? Did she nurture your sense of self-esteem, Rachel?”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, what exactly?”

I took a deep breath. “I failed to live up to her high standards, Rich. Right up to the very end.”

“But Lillian did?”

“Lillian? Are you in touch with Lillian?”

“She's in touch with me. She sends birthday and Hannukah cards. Never missed one in all these years.”

“Well, yeah, she's like that.”

“But not you?”

“No. Not me.”

“So it wasn't personal, you ignoring my birthday all these years? Silly me, I do let my neediness get the best of me sometimes.”

“Rich,” I said, “what about your dad?”

“Ceil didn't tell you that either?”

“She said the two of you were very close.”

The sound he made was barely human, the final protest of an animal being brought down by a pack of hungry wolves.

“Close to murdering each other, she must have meant. He found out when I was eleven. He came home from work early. I was wearing one of Ceil's half slips, pulled up like a strapless gown. And her silver ankle straps. Open toe. I wish I could find those now in my size.”

I knew where he could, but I kept it to myself.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“Say? Nothing. Nothing at all. At least, not to me. He closed the door, rather quietly, and went downstairs. I opened it, also quietly, and went to the top of the stairs and listened.

“‘Ceil,' he said, ‘there's something wrong with your son.'”

I waited, but there was only silence on the line.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to rake this up.”

“Where do you think it is, Rachel, locked away in a vault for safekeeping? It's with me every day. Even after fourteen years of therapy. Your clients, it's even worse for them. At least I have friends and legitimate work. Well, if you call wearing panty hose and lip-synching legitimate. At least my life's not in peril every day, not since I got out of my parents' home. But tranny hookers, they've got nothing. Every day of their lives, that could be one of them, found with a slashed throat and no one giving a shit.”

Not no one, I thought. But I couldn't get the words past the lump in my throat.

“Your mom talked about your dad's funeral,” I said after a moment.

“Oh. Was there one?”

I opened my mouth, but Richie spoke before I got the chance.

“Ceil called. I do recall that. She asked if I was coming up. I said, ‘The king is dead. Long live the queen.' Was I fucking coming up! Oops. There's my other line. Wanna hold?”

“No, it's late. I better go.”

“But you'll call again in another twenty years, won't you?”

“I—”

“That's my good girl. You take care now.”

The dogs were on the spare bed, back to back, asleep. But there was more work to do, and that's what I had to concentrate on, at least for now. I needed to start Clint on opening hook-and-eye locks if I was going to get into Keller's soon and get him back to where he belonged. I hated the idea of keeping him away from Chi Chi, all the more after listening to my cousin's story.

I went back to the basement and looked in the toolbox for some cord, knotted one end, then woke Clint and began a game of tug-of-war. We worked for another hour, going back and forth between commands, everything fun for him, deadly serious for me. When the birds started their day, I finally finished mine, Dashiell across the foot of the bed, Clint with his head on the pillow, right behind mine.

13

The Sound Was Getting Closer

There was a lot of construction going on in the neighborhood, people trying to cash in on the strong real estate market while it lasted. Earthmovers were parked along the curb or behind makeshift plywood barricades, quiet until dawn when, like it or not, the onslaught of noise would be your alarm clock. But there wasn't any work in progress on West Tenth Street, and I'd been able to sleep most of the day, the shutters closed, the room almost as dark as if it were night. After breakfast, which would hold me until I got back home for a combination lunch and dinner, I'd walked the dogs, then worked on the rest of Clint's commands. Now we were going to seam them together. With luck, he'd learn the routine he had to perform as quickly as he'd learned the individual pieces.

I left the cottage just after dark, heading for Little West Twelfth Street with Clint, who for a change was walking instead of being carried and who was not wearing his red leather coat. We moved quickly, going straight to Washington Street, avoiding the people walking their dogs or out to meet friends at the White Horse Tavern for a beer, soak up atmosphere, breathe in smoke, tell the story of their lives.

Passing Keller's, I stopped to scoop Clint up and stuff him into my leather jacket, closing the zipper just enough to keep him from slipping out. I had his ball in one pocket, a flashlight in the other, the knotted string tied around my wrist, my knife in the waistband of my leggings. All in black, like a cat burglar, I climbed the tree I'd climbed before, walked gingerly across the roof, ape-style, talking to Clint as I went, approaching the skylight, then opening the knife and slipping the blade once again under the rusty metal rim until I could lift it and drop down inside. Once I was in, I took Clint out of my jacket, unhooked his leash, turned on the flashlight, and got to work.

We started at the farthest place he'd have to go, and with one of the toughest jobs, the lock. I attached the string to the hook, closed the toilet lid, and tapped it. Clint hopped up. There was already a hole in my great plan. I could wiggle the string and Clint would pull it. But from where he stood, he would be pulling the string down, forcing the hook tighter into the eye instead of loosening it. This project needed work and needed it fast. I took a good look at his body, measured the ledge with my eyes, and decided that if this was going to work, I'd have to take the chance of having him on the sill.

I called him off the toilet seat and watched him bounce down to the floor. Then I tore out of the bathroom, calling him to chase me around the upstairs offices of the empty building. That done, I started all over again.

This time, I lifted him up and put him on the sill. For a moment, he leaned against the dirty, frosted window and didn't move. But when I told him to tug, he immediately picked up the string and yanked. However, instead of pulling up, he shook his head back and forth, as if he were trying to snap the neck of a small rodent. I praised him and called him off. This time he jumped from the sill to the closed toilet seat, then down to the floor, ready for another chase game. Instead, I tapped the seat, and once he'd backed up and made that jump, I tapped the sill. Clint put his paws on the sill and whined, but he was a game little dog. I tapped again; he barked once and made the jump.

This time I held the string so that the piece sticking out of my hand was over the hook. Clint cocked his head. The only way he could reach the end of the string was to stand on his hind legs. “Take it,” I told him, an urgent whisper. “Take it.”

He stood. He pulled. On the third yank, the hook popped free and we ran around the old building until I could no longer breathe.

So far, so good. But once he got to Keller's, there'd be no string, only the hook.

Clint was practically manic now. I tapped the seat, tapped the sill, and twice more he opened the hook that kept the window locked by tugging the knotted string up. Twice more I raved about his mental capacity, dazzling good looks, and remarkable courage, and twice more we raced through the dark, empty offices, me stopping and turning at the last minute so that he could catch me.

This time I untied the string, clicked the hook back into the eye, and with Clint on the floor, pointed at the hook and told him, “Take it.”

He hopped up on the seat, then onto the sill, and stood on his hind legs. He looked for the string and, not seeing it, turned back toward me, his head cocked. I lifted my right pointer, moved it toward the window, and tapped the center of the hook with my fingernail.

“Take it.”

Clint froze. I tapped once more, then withdrew my hand. For what seemed like ages, we stayed still in the dark bathroom, the flashlight sitting on the back of the john now, its beam shining on the hook and eye. Then Clint bent his head, grasped the hook with his teeth, and gave a pull, nearly falling off the sill when it popped up.

That's when I heard it, a low scratching sound.

It stopped, then started again.

Mice in the walls?

Clint heard it, too. He let go of the hook and put his front paws down on the sill. I scratched his head; “Good boy,” I told him, tapping the open hook. But my concentration was elsewhere. So was his. The sound was getting closer.