Doghouse (14 page)

Tonica reached underneath the bar and pulled out a street map of Seattle proper, unfolding it so that he could get a clear bird's-eye view. No doubt Ginny had some app on her tablet that did the same, with quick zoom and
bookmarking, but he still liked the solid feel of paper under his fingers, especially for something like this.

Penny abandoned Molly and came to sit on the bar next to him, peering over his arm as though she, too, were fascinated by the map.

“This is where Deke lives,” he told her, pointing at the map. “And this is where the other houses owned by the same landlord are.” He picked them off, one by one, referring to his notes to make sure that he had the right street. “And this is the gym where I found Deke.”

He studied the points, trying to find a pattern but not seeing anything other than the fact that they were all in lower-end or working-class neighborhoods. Which meant nothing, really: if you were going to buy a bunch of buildings, and weren't wealthy—which the landlord wasn't—you'd have to go lower on the scale, that was all.

Then he looked back at the notes Ginny had compiled on the renters, shifting through the pages until he found what he was looking for, and he was never going to ask how she got access to this sort of thing. Every single renter had one thing in common with the others: at one time or another, in the past decade, they'd all had a guest membership at Sammy's Gym and Boxing Clinic. “And none of them for longer than six months, either.” He double-checked, to make sure he wasn't hallucinating, then blew out a breath in what might have been a sigh. “And one kid who knew the name of the guy hiring dog-keepers. Might be coincidence, really probably not. Time to lay down some chips, see if we can shake out some
actual dirt.” He picked up his phone and chose a number.

“Louisa? Hey, it's Theo Tonica. Yeah, I know, I'm sorry, but I know for a fact that you don't even look at your pillow until one a.m., so . . . Listen, I need to ask you a favor that might run uncomfortably close to client privilege, or whatever you lawyer types say, so you need to think carefully before you say anything.”

He waited while the other person spoke—heatedly—and then smiled a little, more sadness than relief. “Yeah, that's true enough. I'm not going to say all debts are cleared but we're a hell of a lot closer.” Louisa was an old family friend, so the debts ran for years, in both directions. “Look, a friend of a friend is in trouble, and I need to know if he got into it himself, or if someone else did it to him. What can you find out about the owners—and the clientele—of a boxing gym called Sammy's?”

His eyebrows rose. “Oh really?” He reached with one hand underneath the bar, grabbing the pencil and pad of paper that was always stashed there, and dropped them down on top of the map, startling Penny, who paused in her study to blink at him.

“Uh-huh.” He was writing awkwardly, one hand on the phone, the other trying to keep the pad in place while he wrote. “Really? And that's recent. . . . Yeah, okay. No, this is really . . . helpful. Thank you. Anything else you come up with, let me know soonest. Yeah, you, too. Come by anytime, first drink's on the house.”

He put the phone down and looked at Penny. “Someone at that boxing gym has been a bad, bad boy,” he told her.
“Tell me, how likely do you think it is that someone who was cited for running an illegal fight club a few years back might have branched out into dogfighting?”

Penny blinked at him, her golden-green eyes wise.

“Yeah,” he said. “That's what I thought, too.”

There was a surge in orders just then, swamping Jon, so Teddy put the map away, shooed Penny off the counter, and busied himself pulling drafts and mixing drinks. There wasn't anything they could do this late at night, anyway. They'd reconnoiter in the morning, see what Ginny had managed to put together on her side, and figure out what to do then.

Or, if they had what he thought they had, whom to call for backup. Because he, at least, tried to learn from his past mistakes, and not make the same ones again.

9

D
eke picked at a fraying
spot on the knee of his pants, and stared out the car window. The sun was going down, and none of the streets looked familiar yet. He wasn't used to being in this part of the city: it made him nervous.

The woman driving—Shana, her name was, he reminded himself, Shana something Greek—was humming under her breath. She didn't look happy, but she didn't look mad, either. And she'd said he was welcome to stay with her as long as needed, but he didn't know if she'd said that because Seth was standing there glaring at her, or if she really meant it.

He'd tried to argue, tried to insist that he could go back to his house if Seth didn't want him around anymore, that he hadn't been kicked out yet, that he was still able to take care of himself on his own. Seth had just looked at him like that was the dumbest thing Deke had ever said, and after a couple of minutes he'd given up. He'd never won an argument with Seth, not once in years, and Deke didn't expect that to change this time, either. But a man had his pride, he thought. He had to at least get in the ring.

Wasn't the first time he'd lose in the ring, either.

When he'd quieted down, Seth had pointed out that he'd just gone to Sammy's and tried to beat an answer out of a kid, and just because the kid wasn't pressing charges didn't mean Zimmerman wasn't going to hear about it, somehow, and when that happened Deke had better have the rest of his shit cleared up, which meant getting out of the way and letting Seth and the others do their job without worrying about him.

So now he was going to stay with this woman, this stranger. In her house. Just a few days, Seth had said. Maybe a week, tops. Then this would all be straightened out, and things could go back to normal.

Deke sniffed. He knew better. At least they were letting him go home long enough to get his things. He'd had to borrow socks from Seth this morning, and they felt all wrong on his feet.

“You okay over there?”

“Yeah,” he said, after making sure she was talking to him and not the puppy sleeping in a cardboard box in the backseat.

That was the other thing. He was supposed to take care of the puppy. “You agreed to let them in your house; that's what got you into trouble in the first place,” Seth had said. “You don't get to weasel out now.”

Deke had never weaseled out of anything, and he resented the hell out of Seth for even saying that. He just didn't think it was fair, when all he'd agreed to do was not look, and not ask questions, and not talk about the dogs, not take care of them. He'd tried saying that to Seth, and
lost that fight, too.

“Ginny's already got that mutt of hers to deal with, and ain't no way Teddy's got time to coddle it. Man up, Deke, it's just a puppy, for God's sake.”

The woman had just laughed, especially when the thing had licked her hand, and said she wasn't going to walk it, or clean up after it.

One puppy probably wasn't so much trouble, for a couple of days. He liked cats better, though. Cats left you alone. Didn't pester you, or make you feel guilty.

The woman was a decent driver, he'd give her that, and the car was nice, purring along instead of rattling or squeaking. It wasn't brand-new, but newer than the bartender's old coupe. And it was worlds more comfortable than trying to ride on the back of Seth's idiot machine. Man was too old to be riding a damned motorcycle . . . He could feel his old bones starting to ease against the seat, and didn't even realize that he'd closed his eyes until they pulled up to his street and the car stopped.

Deke frowned, something setting his nerves off again. He glanced at the house, seeing nothing awry, then spotted three figures lurking along the trees that separated it from the neighbors. It was hard to tell at dusk, but he thought they looked like teenagers, the way they were skulking in the shadows, afraid someone would call the truant officer on them. Not that it was his house anymore to worry about, but he didn't like strangers around, especially not punk teenage strangers.

Not his problem, he reminded himself. He didn't have
anything worth stealing, and it wasn't his house anymore, never mind what Seth said, and those other folks promised. He knew better than to get his hopes up. Losing his job, having Zimmerman come after him like that, and then the dustup at the gym—he was lucky they weren't already hauling him to some geezer home where they'd try to cut his meat for him, or not even let him
have
meat anymore.

He looked at the house again. It wasn't much: same peeling paint, same curtains that had come with the rental, same porch light that never gave off enough light no matter what wattage bulb he put in there. But it had been home, for a while.

“It don't look the same.”

The woman glanced over at him. She was a looker, if you liked the dark-haired, sloe-eyed type, but about forty years too young for him, even if he'd been inclined to try. Besides, you didn't hit on someone who was giving you a place to flop.

“Yeah, I get that,” the woman said. “Change sucks, especially when it's not one you want.”

The blonde, Ginny, said they'd be safe with her, him and the little dog. Like they thought he was in danger. Deke scoffed. Like anyone would bother with him. Even punk-ass kids wouldn't take a swing at him.

All he'd had to do was ignore what was going on, take the money, and not ask questions, and he still somehow managed to do that wrong. And now he had to pack up his stuff and go live with some strange dame who, no matter
she was a looker, was still a stranger and he didn't like strangers. He didn't like change and it was all change.

And now even the place he'd lived in for nearly ten years didn't look the same.

“Let's get this over with. All you need to do is grab enough clothing for a few days. I have a washer and dryer, so even if this drags out—which it won't,” she added quickly, so he must have let panic show on his face, “you'll be okay. Come on.”

Deke nodded once, then swallowed and got out of the car. He'd become a problem other people had to deal with, a mess they had to clean up. That was no fate for a grown man. Maybe it was time to just give in. Wasn't like there was anything worth fighting for anymore.

Left in the backseat, the puppy let out a woeful yip of abandonment.

“Hush, dog,” he said. “We'll only be gone a few minutes, and the sun's down so you won't get overheated.”

Deke didn't care about the dog, except he did, sort of. Thing was pitiful, and alone, and didn't seem like anyone wanted him, either, if they'd left him in the basement when all the other dogs got took. And if he'd been left, then Seth was right, that sort of made the dog his responsibility. His mess.

“We need to get food for it, too,” he said.

“Yeah, I know. After we pack you up, okay?”

Inside, the house smelled musty, like he'd been gone for more than a few days. Or maybe it smelled like that all the time, and he'd never noticed. He left the woman standing
in the living room and headed for the bedroom, trying to remember where he'd left his suitcase. He hadn't used it in years.

It was under his bed, where he'd thought. “Good to know the brain ain't entirely gone,” he said as he put it on the bed, flipping it open and turning to look at the dresser. Socks, underwear, pants, a couple of shirts. Pajamas. Toothbrush and comb, and the pills the doctor made him take for his heart. He'd forgotten them when he stayed with Seth last night.

The suitcase looked half empty when he was done, so he added a sweater and a pair of slippers. He'd never been out to the island; it might get colder at night.

“Something to read,” he said, and went back out to the living room. She was still standing there, hands behind her back as though afraid to touch anything. He grabbed a few books off the top of the pile, not even looking to see what they were, and went back into the bedroom, tossing them on top of the neatly folded clothing.

He closed up the suitcase and brought it back into the living room.

“That's it?”

“I ain't a girl, to need a steamer trunk for a coupla days,” he said gruffly.

She smiled, like he'd said something funny. “We probably should check the kitchen, to make sure there's nothing in the fridge that might go bad.” She said it like she'd wanted to do it herself but was afraid. Deke thought about the condition of his kitchen, and snorted. She might have
the right of it, there.

“If it was gonna go bad it would have already,” he said, but headed toward the kitchen, anyway.

“You're a man after my own housekeeping heart,” she said, trailing along. “If there's anything worth taking, we should. I'm not sure what I've got in my kitchen other than a few takeout menus.”

She almost ran into him when he stopped just past the kitchen arch.

“Deke?”

He could feel her peering over his shoulder, her height giving her a clear view of the door that led down to the cellar. It was open. Not much, but definitely open. He always kept it locked. Always. He never went down there.

Down there was where the big guy, Tonica, had found the dog. Maybe he left the door open?

Deke wasn't the smartest kid in the class, but he was no dummy, either. Tonica had seemed the cautious, conscientious type. The sort that closed doors behind him. And anyone else came poking around, poking around
down there,
odds were they weren't leaving him an early birthday present.

He thought about the gangly forms he'd seen outside the house when they pulled up, and the look of the man who paid him every month.

“Get out,” he said. “Now.”

Part of him wanted to look, to see what was going on down there, in the basement he never went into. But even if it was empty—and why
wouldn't
it be empty? why would
anyone leave something there, after they cleared everything out like Tonica said?—something was screaming under his skin that he shouldn't go closer, that he should get the hell out, too.

So he did.

They'd made it as far as the living room, the woman reaching down to grab the handle of his suitcase, when he heard a sound he'd never wanted to hear again, the muffled pop-and-hiss of something exploding. Fifty years fell off him in an instant, as he grabbed the woman by the back of her shirt and hauled her toward the door. Precious seconds spent opening it, the sweat on the back of his neck running cold, his skin prickling in anticipation of the next blow, the one that would break windows and knock them through a wall.

They were halfway across the lawn when the house blew.

There was
shouting, and something snapping, crackling, and the smell of something familiar, unpleasant. He licked his lips, and tasted blood. Had he gotten knocked out again?

“Deke. Deke, can you hear me?”

“Woman, I hear you fine, stop your yelping.”

No, the yelping was the dog. He was lying on his back, and the dog was yelping, and why was he lying on his back? That was a damned fool thing to do because his body felt like hell. He must have taken a KO, but wait, he wasn't in
the ring anymore; he'd quit years ago.

The smell was smoke, he recognized it now. The combination of that and the taste of blood in the back of his throat made him feel queasy. He groaned, and tried to sit up, to see what the hell was going on.

“Sir, no, please don't get up.” Hands were on him, and unfamiliar voices were still shouting, and the wind was rushing around him, smoke and blood and the damned dog kept yipping. Deke just said the hell with it, and passed out again.

Ginny had
gotten the call from Shana, as close to hysteria as she'd ever heard her. “Fire” and “hospital” had managed to get through, and Ginny had met her at the emergency room where Deke had been taken.

“The doctors say he'll be all right; he got knocked out and they said he was dehydrated. But he'll be okay. Oh God, Gin, the entire house went up. It was horrible.”

Ginny let her babble a little longer, until the words started to dry up, and the shaking stopped. Shana was a mess, Parsifal cuddled on her lap despite the dirty looks the nurses kept throwing her, but when Ginny suggested that she go home, Shana refused. “I told you I'd give him a place to stay, and he needs it even more now, right? He saved my life, Ginny, getting me out of there.”

Ginny decided not to point out that Shana wouldn't have been in danger if she hadn't been talked into giving Deke a place to stay. Instead, she patted her on the
shoulder, made sure she had enough coffee, and went to talk to someone in charge, who directed her to where Deke was being examined.

By the time she found him, he'd been put in a corner of the ER, drapes pulled around him to give the illusion of privacy, and the doctor was long gone. She pulled the drape closed behind her and went to his bedside. “Hey.”

“Hospital?” He didn't even open his eyes. She guessed that the sounds and smells were enough to clue him in.

“Yeah. What do you remember?”

“Fire. House.” His voice was scratchy, like he'd been shouting. Smoke inhalation, she guessed. “How bad?”

“I don't know.” She hadn't bothered asking. “But probably bad enough that even when we solve this, you're not going to be living there again any time soon.” She paused. “I'm sorry.” He might not have had a lot, but everything he'd had was probably now either burnt, or sodden from the firefighters' hoses. She should call Tonica, let him know everyone was okay, have him maybe check and see if anything could be salvaged. He had to have at least one friend in the fire department, right? She tried to remember if any of the regulars at Mary's had fire department patches on their jackets, but her brain—usually good with that sort of thing—drew a blank.

“Your friend, what's-'er-name, Shana?” Deke asked, bringing her attention back to the moment at hand.