A Hell of a Dog (3 page)

“How about an explanation of alpha as it applies to behavior and training?”

“Super,” she said, grinning at me. She uncapped her pen. “We'll call it ‘Who's in Charge Here Anyway?' I have you down for two of the panels as well. No preparation required. Someone asks a question. You answer it. Piece of cake.”

When most people tell you something is no work, what they are really saying is that it's worth no money, which is exactly what they're planning to pay you. I felt a surge of preparatory adrenaline.

“How does this sound?” she asked. “Five for your talk, two for each panel, and of course your customary fee for private investigation work, which is?” she said, looking up.

I told her. Her eyes registered no sign of surprise. She was clearly a woman who didn't mind paying for whatever it was she decided she wanted.

“Done. And, as an added bonus, you'll get to meet four of the seven self-designated ‘dog trainers to the stars.' I had a feeling you wouldn't be able to resist my offer.”

I didn't think too many people resisted Sam, at least not in business. She was probably lucky at cards, too.

She planned well, having me work my undercover job as speaker only when everyone else was also on stage, except for the last session, probably figuring if we got that far without an incident, we were home free.

“Who are the other participants, and what are their topics?” I asked. I thought I could be the first kid on the block to find out. I was wrong.

“Let's order first,” she said. “I'm starving.”

Over dinner, Sam didn't mention the program at all. She had the Bambi-Thumper special, starting with roast venison with wild mushroom risotto, then the saddle of rabbit, which she attacked as if she hadn't eaten in days. I started with chicken, foie gras, and black trumpet terrine and segued into the seared yellowfin tuna with rosemary. I couldn't finish either dish, but I didn't think it would go over big to put the plates down on the pristine stenciled oak floor for Dashiell to clean the way I would have were I at home.

“Do you ever call men?” Sam asked out of the blue after the plates had been cleared. “You know, if you meet an interesting guy at a party? Do you ever call the hostess and get his number, give him a call, see if he wants to go to the museum, or lie and say you have an extra ticket to the Knicks game?”

I shook my head. If I laid low, Sam would probably answer all her questions herself. At least, I hoped so. I didn't relish the thought of her actually leaving an opening in the conversation during which time I would be obliged to talk about my own pathetic history and arrested social development.

“I do,” she said. “Maybe
that's
my problem. What about sex on the first date?” She lifted her wineglass but waited attentively for my answer before taking a sip.

“It depends,” I said, hoping I wouldn't be asked to elaborate.

Sam sighed. “Your standards are probably higher than mine.” She gestured toward me in a silent toast and drained her glass. Since I lied for a living, I never thought my standards were higher than anyone's, but I refrained from saying so.

“What about married men?” she asked, topping off my glass and refilling her own. But she didn't wait for my answer. “It depends,” she said, “right? Well, for me, it usually depends on whether or not they ask.”

Dashiell rolled over onto his side, using my foot as a pillow.

“I'd kill to meet Mr. Right, Rachel, but so far, all I keep doing is ending up with Mr. Tonight.”

I did a lot of nodding. It was just as Frank said. You'd be surprised at what people say if you just give them a chance to talk.

I thought perhaps that Sam had had too much to drink, but when her dessert arrived, a tower of alternating layers of white, milk, and dark chocolate mousse sitting on a plate that had been swirled with raspberry sauce and dotted with fresh berries, she seemed perfectly sober.

“Taste this,” she commanded. “You can still change your mind and order one.”

It was so luscious, it might have dropped from heaven, but one bite was enough. Sam shrugged and dug in. Afterward, she finally started to tick off the names of some of the participants in the program, but she got so carried away with bits of gossip about each one that she didn't get very far.

When the waiter came with the bill, Sam glanced at it and handed him her credit card. While her purse was still open, she took out a check she had obviously written before I'd arrived. “Two more things,” she said, holding the check tantalizingly between two manicured fingers, the nails painted a classic arterial red. “The symposium starts on Monday morning. The speakers are arriving tomorrow, starting in the early afternoon, and there's a welcoming banquet for them tomorrow night at the hotel, at eight. Is that a problem for you?”

“Not at all.”

“I might have to ask you to cover one more speaking slot.” She reached across the ruins of her dessert and handed me a check for considerably more than I would have asked for. “One of the trainers who agreed to be part of the program early on, someone who, in fact, was totally thrilled and enthusiastic, hasn't confirmed.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning she didn't send in confirmation for her room, and I haven't been able to reach her.” She looked at her watch, as if the answer might be written on its face. “She was supposed to deliver the opening talk, on breed character. So if need be, could you do that? I can put it later in the week if that would help.”

“No problem.” Sam's check was still in my hand. “Who was scheduled to do it?”

“Tina Darling. Do you know her?”

“We've met. You mean she's missing, Sam?”

“Well, I wouldn't say
that
. All I know is that she hasn't sent in her room form, nor is she returning phone calls. As the organizer, I have no choice but to assume she's not coming and to cover her talk times, don't I? It's only good business. Rachel, people are flying in from all over the country, even from England if you count Marty Eliot, but he's here lecturing more than he's there practicing, so that probably doesn't count. Still, I can't just tell them all there are holes in the program, go shopping at Bloomingdale's, can I?”

She looked at the check, still in my hand.

“Of course, I'll
pay
you for the extra—”

“That wasn't my concern. Of course I'll do it, Sam. Whatever you need is fine.”

“Super. I already have someone to cover the slot on dealing with aggressive dogs. That's another topic we can't afford to omit.”

“I see your point, of course. You have to have a backup, just in case.” I folded the check in half and put it into my jacket pocket.

“You'll never guess who.” She leaned forward, clearly pleased with herself.

I looked up. “You mean for the talk on aggression?”

Sam licked her red lips, the cat who'd just stolen the cream.

“He never does these kinds of things. Chip Pressman.” She was grinning. “He's hard to get,” she whispered.

Tell me about it, I thought.

“I've been after him for years. See—lose some, win some. It all works out.”

I felt Dashiell's head lift up, brushing my leg. I knew if I looked down, he'd be looking back at me as if to ask what had happened to speed up my breathing.

“Still,” Sam said, as much to herself as to me, “it's a pity about Tina. She's a wonderful speaker, astonishing for someone so young. She simply mesmerizes the audience.”

“Maybe she'll still show. Maybe she's away, and planning to be back in time for her talk.”

“Perhaps. I left her several messages, and I'm holding a room for her, just in case. But I can't take chances with the program.”

“No, you can't.”

“Of course, you'll stay at the Ritz, all expenses paid,” she said, “including Dashiell's. Since the Four-Legged Gourmet wanted to be the only booth with food our last day, I insisted they supply food for all the participating dogs, gratis. We can't expect people to schlep their own dog food, can we? And I got another supplier to make up great sweatshirts for us. Wait until you see them.”

She was some piece of work, Sam Lewis. Like many a bitch I'd trained, it seemed Sam too could and would do whatever it took to get her way—intimidate, whine, beg, plead, threaten, fool, even seduce.

I had once seen a little bitch flag a male, tossing her tail to the side, a sign she was willing to mate, in order to get the bone he had and she wanted. It worked, too. Of course, as soon as the prize was in her possession, she changed her tune, acting as if she thought he were a periodontist.

I wondered what my new employer's follow-up would be, if she too showed her canines after she'd gotten whatever it was she wanted. After all, when you captured your prey with honey, or as in this case, money, that wasn't the end of the story. But whatever that turned out to be, from what I'd seen so far, to help my audience really understand alpha, I could simply show them Sam.

4

I COULD HEAR BIRDS SINGING

Room 305 was small, but the big casement window had a spectacular view east, over Central Park. I opened the windows and let in some air. The room was painted cream, with a warm gray trim around the windows and heavy gray velvet drapes in case I got tired of trees in the foreground with the Fifth Avenue skyline beyond. The gray rug was thick, and so were the walls. I couldn't hear Chip opening his suitcase and putting pictures of his wife and sons out on the small oak bureau or between the lamp and the clock radio on the nightstand near his bed. Instead, I could hear birds singing from across the street in the park and an occasional horn honking when the light changed on Central Park West. New York is a nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to drive here.

I opened my suitcase, but I didn't unpack. I rarely wear the kind of clothes that need to be hung up. I went back to the windows and sat on the cushioned window seat looking out at the park. The trees were in leaf, and over the low stone wall that rimmed the park I could see glimpses of joggers and bicyclers, people walking their dogs, nannies out with children. The sun was shining, and from my third-floor window, the park looked clean and safe.

There was plenty of time before dinner for a long walk and a good look around the hotel when I got back. In deference to my paranoia, I hung the Do Not Disturb sign on my doorknob then, deciding to spare Jimmy, took the stairs, Dashiell running on ahead and waiting for me at each landing. We crossed the lobby quickly; this was no time to dawdle. There were trees across the street, thousands of them. Dashiell had his work cut out for him, and he was anxious to get started.

We took a path that led east into the park and then snaked its way northeast, heading deeper into the park as we headed uptown. To my left I could see the Dakota, where John Lennon had lived and died, looming high above the surrounding landscape. Looking east, beyond the roadway, I could see nothing but densely planted trees. Dashiell headed that way, doing his award-winning imitation of an untrained dog until I decided to take my chances of a hundred-dollar ticket for disobeying the city's leash law. He ran ahead, stopping whenever the road or his path would cause him to lose sight of me.

As suddenly as we had entered the copse of trees, we came to a clearing, and when Dashiell turned to ask me with his eyes if he could run on ahead, I signaled him to lie down instead. Off to the left was a group of young boys, eleven-or twelve-year-olds on the verge of voice changes, growth spurts, and the sudden appearance of hair where there used to be none. They had a couple of six-packs and a pack of cigarettes and apparently were very funny chaps; no matter who spoke, they couldn't seem to stop laughing. But what interested me was in the middle of the grassy meadow. It was Alan Cooper, a major consumer of and advocate for the products of Electronic Dog. Practicing what he preached, he was working his German shorthaired pointer with a shock collar and a remote.

Of course, in keeping with the verbal game-playing so prevalent in dog training today, Electronic Dog's literature and Cooper's book,
Instant Obedience
, never calls the equipment by such a crude, defining name. It is an “electronic” collar, and the shock with which you zap your disobedient dog is called “electronic stimulation.” Most surprising of all, the brochure that accompanies the equipment suggests that the mild doses are felt as a pleasant buzz by the dog and can be used for praise; God forbid you should simply say, “Good dog.” The more powerful doses correct the errant dog and make him see the wisdom of instant obedience—that is, unless he wants his fur to stick straight out from his skin for the next week or two.

I crouched next to Dashiell at the end of the tree line and watched Alan work, sending his dog out and calling him back. The first two times, the big dog was quick to obey. The third time he caught a scent in the air—a squirrel, a bird, something his genetic programming made more interesting than breathing—and he made the mistake of obeying his nature instead of his master.

I didn't need to watch Alan to know when he was making a correction. I saw it in the dog, too thin for his size, and once he'd stopped, I could see, too, that he was trembling.

I heard Alan call out.

“Beau,
come
.”

The dog stood facing him, head dipped low, one front leg bent and held off the ground, as if he were pointing a bird. His docked tail pointed to the ground instead of the sky. I saw him blink twice and pass his tongue over his upper lip. Then he ran toward his master, who, holding the remote zapper, welcomed him with almost as much warmth as a rattlesnake would display.

I signaled to Dashiell to follow me, and instead of crossing the sunny meadow, we continued partway around it, staying hidden among the trees, emerging a few minutes later near a lake where Dashiell could swim.