Jack Kilborn & J. A. Konrath (3 page)

It looked like it had been tie-dyed.

“I think I have two or three dollars in my purse,” she rasped in her smoker voice. “Is that okay?”

What the hell. I took it.

“I’ll take those Tic-Tacs, too.”

She handed them over. Wint-O-Green.

“Can we go now?”

“Go ahead.”

She turned to leave the alley, and a thought occurred to me.

“Ms. Cummings! When the police came to visit you to look for Marcus, did you have an alibi?”

She glanced over her shoulder and nodded vigorously.

“That’s the point. The day Vincent said he brought the dog to my house, I wasn’t home. I was enjoying the third day of an Alaskan Cruise.”

Vincent Thorpe was waiting for me when I got back to my office. He carefully scanned the floor before approaching my desk.

“That’s not Marcus! That’s not even a Shar-pei!”

“We’ll discuss that later.”

“Where’s Marcus?”

“There have been some complications.”

“Complications?” Thorpe leaned in closer, raised an eyebrow. “What happened to your face?”

“I think I’m allergic to wool.”

“It looks like you rubbed your cheeks with sandpaper.”

I wrote, “I hate him” on my notepad.

“Look, Mr. Thorpe, Abigail Cummings doesn’t have Marcus. But I may have an idea who does.”

“Who?”

“First, I need to ask you a few questions…”

My face was too sore for the ski mask again, so I opted for a nylon stocking.

It was hot.

I shifted positions on the branch I was sitting on, and took another look through the binoculars.

Nothing. The backyard was quiet. But thirty feet away, next to a holly bush, was either a small, brown anthill, or evidence that there was a dog on the premises.

I took out my pencil and reviewed my stake-out sheet.

9:46pm—Climbed tree.
9:55pm—My face hurts.
10:07pm—It really hurts bad.
10:22pm—I think I’ll go see a doctor.
10:45pm—Maybe the drug store has some kind of cream.

I added, “11:07pm—Spotted evidence in backyard. Remember to pick up some aloe vera on the way home.”

Before I had a chance to cross my Ts, the patio door opened.

I didn’t even need the binoculars. A man, mid-forties with short, brown hair, was walking a dog that was obviously a Shar-pei.

Though my track-team days were far behind me (okay, non-existent), I still managed to leap down from the tree without hurting myself.

The man yelped in surprise, but I had my gun out and in his face before he had a chance to move.

“Hi there, Mr. Ricketts. Kneel down.”

“Who are you? What do…”

I cocked the gun.

“Kneel!”

He knelt.

“Good. Now lift up that dog’s back leg.”

“What?”

“Now!”

Glen Ricketts lifted. I checked.

It was Marcus.

“Leash,” I ordered.

He handed me the leash. My third dog in two days, but this time it was the right one.

Now for Part Two of the Big Plan.

“Do you know who I am, Glen?”

He shook his head, terrified.

“Special Agent Phillip Pants, of the American Kennel Club. Do you know why I’m here?”

He shook his head again.

“Don’t lie to me, Glen! Does the AKC allow dognapping?”

“No,” he whimpered.

“Your dog show days are over, Ricketts. Consider your membership revoked. If I so much catch you in the pet food isle at the Piggly Wiggly, I’m going to take you in and have you neutered. Got it?”

He nodded, eager to please. I gave Marcus a pat on the head, and then turned to leave.

“Hold on!”

Glen’s eyes were defeated, pleading.

“What?”

“You mean I can’t own a dog, ever again?”

“Not ever.”

“But…but…dogs are my life. I love dogs.”

“And that’s why you should have never stole someone else’s.”

He sniffled, loud and wet.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

I frowned. Grown men crying like babies weren’t my favorite thing to watch. But this joker had brought it upon himself.

“Buy a cat,” I told him.

Then I walked back to my car, Marcus in tow.

“Marcus!”

I watching, grinning, as Vincent Thorpe paid no mind to his expensive suit and rolled around on my floor with his dog, giggling like a caffeinated school boy.

“Mr. McGlade, how can I ever repay you?”

“Cash is good.”

He disentangled himself from the pooch long enough to pull out his wallet and hand over a fat wad of bills.

“Tell me, how did you know it was Glen Rickets?”

“Simple. You said yourself that he was always one of your closest competitors, up until his dog died earlier this year.”

“But what about Ms. Cummings? I talked to her on the phone. I even dropped the dog off at her house, and she took him from me. Wasn’t she involved somehow?”

“The phone was easy—Ms. Cummings has a voice like a chainsaw. With practice, anyone can imitate a smoker’s croak. But Glen really got clever for the meeting. He picked a time when Ms. Cummings was out of town, and then he spent a good hour or two with Max Factor.”

“Excuse me?”

“Cosmetics. As you recall, Abigail Cummings wore enough make-up to cause back-problems. Who could tell what she looked like under all that gunk? Glen just slopped on enough to look like a circus clown, and then he impersonated her.”

Thorpe shook his head, clucking his tongue.

“So it wasn’t actually Abigail. It was Glen all along. Such a nice guy, too.”

“It’s the nice ones you have to watch.”

“So, now what? Should I call the police?”

“No need. Glen won’t be bothering you, or any dog owner, ever again.”

I gave him the quick version of the backyard scene.

“He deserves it, taking Marcus from me. But now I have you back, don’t I, boy?”

There was more wrestling, and he actually kissed Marcus on the mouth.

“Kind of unsanitary, isn’t it?”

“Are you kidding? A dog’s saliva is full of antiseptic properties.”

“I was speaking for Marcus.”

Thorpe laughed. “Friendship transcends species, Mr. McGlade. Speaking of which, where’s that Collie/Shepherd mix that Abigail gave you?”

“At my apartment.”

“See? You’ve made a new friend, yourself.”

“Nope. I’ve got a six o’clock appointment at the animal shelter. I’m getting him gassed.”

Thorpe shot me surprised look.

“Mr. McGlade! After this whole ordeal, don’t you see what amazing companions canines are? A dog can enrich your life! All you have to do is give him a chance.”

I mulled it over. How bad could it be, having a friend who never borrowed money, stole your girl, or talked behind your back?

“You know what, Mr. Thorpe? I may just give it a shot.”

When I got home a few hours later, I discovered my new best friend had chewed the padding off of my leather couch.

I made it to the shelter an hour before my scheduled appointment.

An Andrew Mayhem Thriller by Jeff Strand

I
f you’re like me, you spend a lot of time trying to joke your way out of socially awkward and/or potentially fatal situations. A good example of this took place one summer evening when I was relaxing in my recliner with the novel
Whose Blood Is In My Popcorn?
, which I’d been reading off and on for the past four years. I’m not an ambitious reader.

I looked across the living room into the kitchen and saw an extremely large man holding an extremely large knife. He had long greasy hair, was wearing a black leather jacket that had metal spikes around the wrists, and I sort of got the impression that he had broken into my home to kill me.

By “broken into,” of course, I mean that he’d probably just casually walked in through the door in the kitchen that my wife Helen was always reminding me not to leave unlocked. She’d never specifically used a man with a knife as an example, but I’m pretty sure this is the kind of thing she was referring to.

“Are you here about the leaky faucet?” I asked.

Not my all-time funniest comment, I’ll admit. Still, when you consider that I said it to a huge guy with a knife and a homicidal glimmer in his eye, it was a more than passable effort.

He shook his head. “No. I’m not.”

“Oh.”

I considered my options. The only weapons I had readily available were the dog-eared paperback and a grape juice box. I’d already drank most of the juice, so the box probably wouldn’t even carry all the way across the living room if I threw it. However, the straw provided a defensive possibility.

I considered making a run for it. But when I say that the man was “extremely large,” I don’t mean that he was an obese gentleman who would chase after me in a labored waddle. Though it was hard to tell under the jacket, he looked to be all muscle. And as he walked toward me, he moved with a grace and efficiency of motion that gave the impression that he could have me tackled to the ground and nicely decapitated before I even made it to the stairway.

But maybe not. After all, I’m rather nimble myself. I decided to let this one play out and wait for the precise moment to act.

“Are you Andrew Mayhem?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, a split-second before I realized that the more intelligent answer would be “No.”

He stood in front of me and held up the knife. “I’ve been hired to kill you, Mr. Mayhem.”

I lowered the recliner’s footrest. “By whom?”

“I can’t say.”

“You can say if you’re going to kill me, right? I promise not to scrawl the name in my own blood on the carpet.”

He shook his head. “No, I’d get in trouble.”

“If you’re going to kill me, you’ve at least got to let me know who wants me dead. Give my ghost something to avenge.”

“I don’t know…”

“It’s the least you could do.”

“Hey, I waited two weeks for you to be alone in the house. I could’ve done this while your wife and kids were home. Would you want your wife and kids to see you die? Would you?”

“Helen would kick your ass.”

The hit man smiled. “She sure puts you in your place. Damn, but you’re whipped.”

“Not whipped. Henpecked.”

“Whatever.”

“Y’know, you may be here to kill me, but you’re still a guest in my home. Let’s be respectful, okay?”

“Fine with me. I’m not here to talk. I’m here to cut myself a slice of bitch.”

I stared at him for a long moment.

“Did you just say you’re here to cut yourself a slice of bitch?”

He nodded.

“Was that, like, a planned comment? Did you actually come in here with the intention of speaking those exact words?”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means that you’re a bitch, and I’m here to cut a slice of you.”

“No, no, no, no, no, that doesn’t work at all. Trust me on this. Have you really said that to other human beings? What was their reaction?”

“I haven’t said it to anybody else.”

“Good. Don’t. What do you usually say in this situation?”

The assassin looked a bit sheepish. “Actually, you’re my first hit.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, well, that explains it. I know that you were trying to sound all cold-blooded and stuff, but the only reaction you’re going to get is ‘Oh, crap, I’m gonna be murdered by a doofus.’ What’s your name?”

“Victor.”

“Hi, Victor.” I extended my hand politely. He didn’t shake it. I figured I probably should have seen that bit of rudeness coming and placed my hand back on my lap. “Listen, you need a catch phrase that doesn’t make you sound like a street punk. Something sinister but classy. Because I’ll be honest with you, right now I should be so scared that I can barely keep my urine on the inside, and I’m just not feeling it.”

“I bet you’d feel it if I stuck this knife in you.”

“I’m sure I would. But if you’re an assassin, you need to be memorable. You need to be stylish. I mean, any common hooligan can run somebody over with a car, but you, you’re the kind of guy who gets up close and personal with a knife. It’s all about the presentation. You need to leave a lasting impression.”

Victor nodded almost imperceptibly, as if he were considering my advice. Then he scowled as if suddenly realizing that he’d become the kind of assassin who listened to helpful hints from people he was supposed to kill. “No, I don’t. You’ll be dead!”

“Yeah, but this isn’t about me. It’s about you. I might be dead either way, but how would
you
feel if I died thinking that your hit man persona was sub-par?”

Victor shrugged. “I get paid either way.”

“Is it just about the money, though?”

“Sure.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“I kill for money. That’s what an assassin does. When I slit your throat, I won’t feel a thing.”

I wasn’t happy that the conversation had turned to slit throats, and I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “How many people have you killed?”

“I told you, you’re my first.”

“You haven’t killed
anybody
? Not even for recreation?”

He shook his head.

“What about animals?”

“No animals.”

“Have you ever flushed a goldfish?”