Hound Dog & Bean (22 page)

The dog was hit by a car in front of him, and the man behind the wheel barely slowed down, then just went on down the road while H.D.’s dog lay screaming in the street. He’d gone to the dog, it had been bleeding horribly, and when he’d attempted to pick it up, it had tried to bite him and his mother had run out and he was crying—

God he had to fight back the tears even now!

—and his mother assured him that Gregory wasn’t really trying to bite him; it was just because he was afraid. She called a cab so they could take the dog to the vet—

“Save him, Mommy!”

—and really, how could they have taken him on a bus and they didn’t have a car. But by the time the cab got there, Gregory had died.

And now he was thinking of another dog. A second dog that was hit by a car and—

“There!” cried Bean so suddenly that H.D. gave a shout of surprise and slammed on the brakes, and wasn’t it lucky they were on such a small road or they might have been rear-ended? He looked over at Bean, who was pointing at an opening in the trees that was practically hidden with overhanging vines and tall grass. How Bean had even seen the mailbox with the words “Huxlies” scrawled on it H.D. wasn’t sure. He sure was glad they’d taken the big van, though. He might have been afraid to drive a car through that. Were there no laws about such a thing?

There are laws against puppy mills and what good do they do?

The thought made H.D. clench his teeth.

“Thanks,” he managed to say and turned the car in through the opening and down a road that was not much more than two ruts for the tires. Grass grew up heavy in the middle, and he could hear it brushing up against the bottom of the van. There would be snakes and who knew what all in that grass, and H.D. hoped he wouldn’t have to step out into it. Luckily, after a moment, they came over a small rise and there was a two-story house with a long porch. It was old and ugly, and the paint was peeling away in sheets. But the lawn in front was at least half-cut—a riding lawn mower was parked to the side of a gravel driveway.

Bean pointed. A sign was sticking out of the ground next to the house that said, “The Huxlie’s” and a second one that said “Privat Propirty. Keep Out.”

The front door opened and a woman came out onto the porch. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt and jeans. Her hair was dark and pulled back in a fierce knot, but some had come free and was falling in her face. She was wiping her hands on a towel, and she looked frantic—her eyes wide and mouth a slash of dread.

H.D. looked over at Bean, who nodded, and they both got out.

“Ar-are you with the animal p-people?” she called out.

“Yes, ma’am,” H.D. answered.

“Oh God, oh Christ.” She tossed her towel onto the porch railing and came scrambling down the rickety-looking steps. “Hurry. This way!”

She zipped past them and down the gravel drive, and H.D. had to take off at a jog to keep up with her.

The woman went back around the house, and there was a second building, a garage it
might
have been called at one time long ago, and she bent and grabbed at the door handle and yanked.

“Need help with that?” Bean asked.

The door opened with a rusty scream, and the woman cried out and, pinwheeling her arms, almost fell backward. Bean was there and caught her, but that only seemed to distress her more. She whirled away and back and cried, “In there!” and pointed into a fetid gloom.

The smell hit them from five feet away. The smell of rot and shit and piss and who knew what else? H.D. steeled himself for what he might see, but Bean was already moving inside.

“Oh, Christ,” he heard Bean say.

H.D. closed his eyes for a second. Called for the Hound Dog to surface. Followed Bean into the garage.

It was a mess. All kinds of boxes and furniture and chairs were piled in the middle of the room. There were several more lawnmowers, including an antique push mower and another riding one that looked like it hadn’t been used for at least a hundred years, as well as a rusted, scary-looking device that could be dragged behind a tractor. A rototiller? Against one wall were several bicycles in various states of repair—or disrepair—and even a motorcycle with a sidecar. H.D. wouldn’t have gotten in that sidecar for a hundred thousand dollars. It was filled with cobwebs and spider webs and no telling what else. All the crap and junk certainly left no room for a car. What little space was left was taken up by a set of cages that brought tears to his eyes. They were made of rough wood and piled two high, six across. The doors were made of old storm fencing, the edges curled this way and that like cruel spikes, some aimed inward.

Thank God most of them were empty. But the occupants that were there made him want to scream.

The closest cage held a Sheltie, hair falling out, who seemed to be nursing puppies. It was hard to see in the gloom. In the cage next to her was another Sheltie who growled when H.D. approached the cage.

“Please be careful, Hillary.”

H.D. hardly register that Dean had used his real name. H.D. was too busy looking into the dog’s eyes. He held out a hand very slowly, bringing it closer, allowing no fear to show. It helped, of course, that the dog couldn’t bite him through the cage. At first the animal snarled and bared its teeth, but then H.D. began to make soothing noises, calling to him—surely this was the breeding male—and using words like baby and sweetheart and beautiful, even though he was dirty and, like his mate, his hair was falling out in hanks. He looked into the dog’s eyes, golden brown, and bared his soul to the creature.

After a moment, it stuffed its nose through the hole in the fencing and licked H.D.’s hand. “Yes, baby,” H.D. said and leaned close and let it lick his face.

“Hill!”

H.D. ignored Dean. Had to. Felt a funny warmth run through him at the knowledge that Dean was looking out for him. How could Dean know H.D. had a connection with dogs? A dog hadn’t tried to bite him since Gregory….

In the cage next to that was a pair of black schnauzers. There was hardly room in the cage for one dog, let alone two. He could only assume the female was in heat and the owner had put them together to mate. They looked bad, though. Sick. Thin. How did anyone expect the female to even get pregnant?

But when he squatted down—that is when he saw the travesties. Three more dogs and they looked dead. No. Two moved, it was only the far one that was no longer moving. Maggots climbed in and out of the reddish-colored dog’s face and H.D. could only guess at the breed. H.D. didn’t even gag, though. Somewhere along the way the Hound Dog had emerged—he dared not let Bean or the woman see him cry. He looked on with methodical precision, not unlike a medical examiner or an autopsy technician. The two surviving dogs were just lying in their cages, panting lightly, not moving, eyes faraway and unfocused.

H.D. nodded and stood slowly. He turned. “Dean,” he said quietly—without emotion. “Do you think you could back the van up to the door here? I don’t want us moving these animals an inch more than we need to.”

“Of course,” said his friend and jogged off without a question.

Then H.D. turned to the woman. “How could you have let this go on?” He felt fury rising up inside he knew he had to keep from exploding out of him.

“You don’t know…,” she hissed, eyes narrowing. “Don’t you judge me. You don’t
know
what might happen to me if he knew I called you.”

H.D. gritted his teeth, ready to strike…

… and then saw the dark black-and-blue mark under one of her eyes and the hand-shaped bruise on her upper right arm. In a second, the rising beast inside of him was gone.

“Okay.” He cleared his throat. “Let’s get these cages open and the dogs out of here.”

“Please
hurry
,” she said. “I’m going in the house. If he gets home and finds me out here with you, I don’t know what he will do to me.”

“Come with us,” H.D. said before he knew the words were even there.

Her eyes went wild—feral. “Are you out of your
mind?
He’d find me. He’d
kill
me. Now I’m going in the house. You get these dogs and you leave. Hurry!” With that she spun around and was gone.

H.D. heard the van pulling up and he walked outside. He was starting to shake. Emotions were fighting to take over, and he didn’t like it. He had managed to turn them off for a few moments, but he was afraid they were coming back, and he didn’t know what he would do if they did. Something crazy?

Then Bean was there. Came to him, and before he knew what was happening, Bean was holding him. He resisted for only a second and then found himself melting, tears forming in his eyes. Bean… Dean… rocked him, held him tight, made sweet shushing sounds in his ears. H.D. began to tremble. He didn’t know when anyone had done this last.

Mom
.

It had been his mother.

“Hillary?” Dean whispered into his ear at just the right time and with the right amount of strength. “Let’s get these animals out of here.”

T
HEY
WERE
just carrying the last dog to the van when a pickup truck pulled up and a man right out of
Deliverance
—scruffy-faced, with a baseball cap and no teeth in front—jumped out, not even turning off his engine.

“What the
fuck
do you think you’re doin’?”

Bean stepped in front of H.D. He’d done this before with disastrous consequences, and it would only be later that he would marvel at what he had done. In his most businesslike voice he said, “We’re with animal control, Mr. Huxlie. We are taking these animals.”

“You ain’t doing
shit!
” As if he were a magician working a magic trick, a gun seemed to appear in his hand out of nowhere, and he was pointing it at Bean’s face.

Bean gritted his jaw, then stood taller. “Now, Mr. Huxlie. Don’t get yourself into more trouble than you’re already in.”

“Dean… don’t….” he heard H.D. say, and Bean held back a hand in warning.

“Be quiet, H.D.,” he said. “Keep back.” He gave these orders without looking. He wasn’t taking his eyes off the gun.

The man was shaking. “Trouble? This is
private
property. You is the one who’s gonna be in trouble! I ain’t worried about you!”

“You should be though, Mr. Huxlie. Why, you’ve broken… what would you say, H.D.? Six laws?”

Quick as a flash, H.D. answered: “I can think of eight.”

“Do you even have a breeder’s license?”

From the look on the man’s face, Bean knew the answer. That one he had expected a “yes” to. Surely you needed a license to breed dogs? Maybe you didn’t? Well, if you did or didn’t need one, Mr. Huxlie obviously didn’t have a clue.

“Why do I need a license for dogs to
fuck?
They fuck all the god
damned
time. There is strays everywheres!”

“Oh, Mr. Huxlie. Let’s just cut the crap and focus on the fact that you’re holding a gun on me. Why, you’re lucky I don’t take that away from you, cuff you”—and then taking a step right toward possible death—“and stuff it up. Your.
Ass!
”

To Bean’s surprise, the man cringed and lowered the gun. That’s when Bean saw what he hadn’t seen the first time—back at the coffee shop. In a flash, H.D. was past him, a whirl of flying dreadlocks and spinning feet. It was like something out of an old Bruce Lee movie. In seconds, Huxlie was on the ground on his back, and the gun was in H.D.’s hand.

Fuck
, thought Bean. “Don’t—”

But before Bean could even finish his sentence, H.D. had thrown the gun end over end, the metal catching the sun’s evening light, into the tall grass. “Don’t get up,” H.D. hissed.

“You! The both of youse. Get out of here.” Huxlie lifted himself so he was leaning back on his elbows.

H.D. kicked out and Huxlie dropped back and covered his face with his arms. “Linda!” he screamed. “Get the
po
lice! Call ’em, Linda!”

“Shut the fuck up,” H.D. said and moved to kick Huxlie, who began to shrink away and whine like a little girl, again.

“H.D.,” Bean commanded. “Back off.”

“Dean!” The look on H.D.’s face—it was scary. Bean had no doubt that H.D. could go too far. Bean wasn’t going to allow that.

“Mr.
Huxlie!
” He stared down at the pitiful man.

The man looked up at them through his fingers.

“We are taking these dogs. If they live, we’re going to just forget all about this….”

“You have
no
right,” Huxlie moaned. “Them dogs is my livelihood. Do you have a
warrant?
”

H.D. snarled and Huxlie shut up.

“I have about two hundred dollars,” Bean said without thinking.

The man’s eyes turned to suspicious slits. “Them dogs is worth lots more than that.”

“No, Mr. Huxlie. Those dogs are dying. You might get something out of the puppies, but I’m not sure they’re even going to live, they’re so malnourished.” Sadly, it was true. He was afraid one of the older dogs had died while he was carrying it out to the van.

“Them pups is worth two hu’nert apiece.”

“I will give you
three
hundred total, Mr. Huxlie. Not one dime more.” It was about what he had in the deposit bag in the van. Deposit indeed. Only it wasn’t going be deposited in the bank. He wasn’t worried about that; he could afford it. Could easily replace it. “Three hundred dollars and we are out of here. Take it or leave it.”

Huxlie started to prop himself up again and then looked at H.D. in alarm. H.D. was impossible to read, though. At least he wasn’t snarling anymore. And he wasn’t making any threatening gestures.

“I’ll take it….”

Bean nodded, and as he started for the van, he saw H.D. looking at him. Those eyes—those topaz eyes—had seemed to change color. They were darker now. Deeper. Maybe it was a trick of the light. The sun was just starting to dip beneath the trees, the sky there beginning to pinken. He couldn’t read those eyes. There were a million things swimming in those ocean eyes.

Then H.D. mouthed, “Are you sure?”