Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors (15 page)

“Can't say that I have. That's a real good picture, though. I love Christmastime. Not too many dogs on this block, though, so I'd notice that one right off. Let's see, there's my Buster Lee, Luke Jarrett's Delta, and I heard something barking from the Lockes's yard last couple nights, but I haven't made its acquaintance yet. Nothing at all like that little scrawny thing running around loose, though.”

“Where do Mr. Jarrett and the Lockes live?” I asked.

She studied me some more, perhaps trying to make up her mind whether or not I looked like a dog killer with recklessness on my mind. Then she pointed a crooked finger toward a house across the street and one two doors down from hers.

“And if you're planning on stopping by the Lockes, tell them to keep that dog quiet. Folks need sleep.”

“Thanks, you've been a big help,” I said. I dug into my back pocket and took out one of my business cards and gave it to her. The card had my office number on the front and Mavis's number written on the back. “Please, if you see the dog, you can call either number.”

“I sure will,” she said. She shot me a warm smile and then closed the door gently behind her. The polite good-bye was a nice change of pace.

I rang the doorbell at the Jarrett house, but got no answer. I pressed my ear to the door but didn't hear anyone stirring inside. I tucked one of
my cards into the corner of the mailbox. I'd hit the house again on my way back, if I didn't turn up anything else.

On the Locke's front porch, I stumbled over an oily lawnmower. I'd noticed the thing from the sidewalk, and after I'd wondered why it was sitting there, I'd made a mental note to maneuver around it. Even still I misjudged the machine's width and tumbled off balance into a crummy shovel that smelled like the unpleasant end of a pack mule. Feeling stupid, I self-consciously scanned the street to see if anyone had seen the stumble and then checked the back of my pant leg. I didn't have to be a detective to know that the smear across the back of my right calf was not potting soil—all I needed was a nose.

“Great,” I muttered. “Just . . . great.”

I hunted around the porch for something to wipe my pants with. A neon orange flyer taped to the back of the mower's mulch bag caught my eye, and I ripped it off and used it. I discarded the soiled flyer advertising B&B Landscaping Services into an empty flowerpot near the door. Feeling quite the martyr, I jabbed the doorbell with a lot more force than needed and sighed long and deep, as if the entire weight of the world was on my put-upon shoulders.

A gangly preteen with heavily lidded eyes that gave him the look of an old hound dog answered the third ring. His nose, short, smooshed, and turned up impishly at the end, resembled that of a Pekinese. His nose and eyes seemed to battle for dominance on his pimply face, and they were offset by a neat little Afro covering his square head. Dressed in baggy jeans, worn low on his hips, and a blue T-shirt that looked three sizes too big for him, the boy posed his lanky arms akimbo and glared at me.

“Yeah?”

I'm looking for Mr. or Mrs. Locke,” I said. “Are either one of them at home?”

“Nope,” he said, impatiently shifting his weight from one Nike to the other.

“You live here?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“Left your lawnmower out,” I said.

The boy glanced over my shoulder at the mower. “Yep.”

I peeked into the house from the doorway. No dog. A bowl of fruit sat artfully on the coffee table in the living room, which I could see from the screen door—a cornucopia of apples, grapes, oranges, and pears. The place smelled faintly of lemon wax and . . . nut bread? My stomach grumbled, and I was suddenly hungry.

“I'm looking for a dog. Her name's Caldonia. Have you seen a stray wandering around? . . . Maybe while you were walking your dog?”

The boy blinked. “I don't have a dog.”

“Your neighbor heard barking. It sounded like it came from your yard.”

The boy shook his head no. “Dogs wander around here all the time. Some of 'em bark.”

I held up Caldonia's picture. “This dog look familiar?”

The boy flicked a look at the photo with an air of disinterest. “Nope.”

“You sure? Take a closer look,” I said, testily. I'd just stumbled over a smelly lawnmower. I was in no mood to play.

He glanced insolently at the eight-by-ten. His answer didn't change. Nope is what he said; nope is what he meant.

“Do you know a Mavis Conroy?” I asked. “She lives a few blocks over.”

“Nope.”

“What's your name?” I asked.

“Why? You the police or something?”

Finally, something with more than one syllable in it. “It'd be nice to know who I'm talking to,” I said, patiently.

“I don't know who
I'm
talking to.”

The kid had me there. I handed him one of my cards.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“How old are
you
?”

We stared at each other for a time.

“It's been real,” I said.

The boy pushed the door shut in my face.

“Aren't kids precious?” I muttered, hitting the Lockes' front walk. “Makes me want to run right out and have one or two of my own. The little dears.”

No one else on the block had seen Caldonia, which forced me to repeat the indignity one block north. Time lagged, seeming to pack several years' worth of agony into every sixty seconds. When two preschoolers whizzed past me on Big Wheels and called me “The Doggie Lady,” I called it quits. Not for the day, but for good. Grandy would just have to get over it. I stepped up my pace and headed back to Conroy's, stopping abruptly when I heard my name being called from behind.

“Eve!?”

I turned, scanned the sidewalk, and watched as Grandy trotted toward me waving excitedly.

“Good news,” he said when he reached me. “Mavis got a call about the dog. Some man found her wandering around. Says he'll bring her back if there's a reward.”

“
If
there's a reward? That's extortion!”

“Well, extortion or no extortion,” he said. “The woman wants her dog back. I thought you'd appreciate the news.”

“What? He just called up and said, ‘Hey, I have your dog. How much is she worth to you?”

“Pretty much. He said for you to come alone to pick her up.”

I held up my hands. “Whoa, you
who
?”

“
You you.
And don't get an attitude. Let's walk.”

Grandy pulled me gently by the arm toward Conroy's. I had the good sense not to dig my heels in, but it took everything I had not to.

“Grandy,” I said. “We need to talk.”

“What about?”

“What
about
?”

We stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and he turned to me. “One little dog to you,” he said, loosening his grip. “Mavis Conroy doesn't have much. Caldonia means the world to her.”

I stood motionless for a time, then walked off without another word, thoroughly chastened. Grandy following behind.

“Where you headed?” he asked.

“To see a man about a dog.”

When we got back to Mavis's she had five crisp ten-dollar bills rolled up in a rubber band waiting for me. My warnings about crackpots and opportunists fell on deaf ears, and I was quickly sent packing, money in my pocket, to bring Caldonia home—my rendezvous with absurdity to take place in front of the toddler swings in Carver Playlot two blocks up.

The tiny lot was deserted when I got there, except for a couple of little girls in braids half absorbed in burying naked Barbie dolls in the sandbox. I smiled benevolently. They stuck their tongues out at me. I blew them both raspberries and thanked God I had no children. I checked my watch and then looked up and down the street for my dog blackmailer. The street was clear. I leaned against the jungle gym to wait. After about five minutes, the little gravediggers exhumed their property and left. About thirty seconds after that, a man, fortyish, wiry and average in height, dressed in a white undershirt and wrinkled chinos entered the playlot schlepping a big television box. He approached me, nervously, checking behind him as he came.

“Here's your dog, lady,” he said, plopping the box onto the soft sand in front of me. “There's a reward, right?”

“The dog's owner is offering something for your trouble,” I said. “You mind opening that?” I asked pointing to the box. “I'd like to make sure the dog you have is the dog she wants. After that, the money's all yours.”

The man didn't move.

“I don't like dogs,” he said.

“I don't much care for them either,” I said. “But we all gotta do what we all gotta do.”

“Me not likin' dogs is why the thing is in the box and not on a leash,” he said. “You just give me the money and I'm on my way, then you and the box can have a good time.”

Inwardly I groaned, knowing that I'd been jerked around . . . a second time. I glowered at the man as he babbled on defensively. I watched his lips move a mile a minute, having tuned out his actual words. Didn't matter. He was weaving a tall tale I had no time for. The more his lips moved, the angrier I got.

“Eh, you see? My brother is really the one who found the dog,” I heard him say when I tuned back in. “But he had to go to work. He asked
me to bring it back. Which I didn't mind doing, as long as I didn't have to touch it or have it jump all over me. You know how dogs are.” His smile was weak.

“Where'd your brother find him?” I asked, forcing the man to lie to me some more.

“Around . . . the neighborhood,” he said.

“Uh-huh. Where
exactly?
”

“You know, around the neighborhood. It's a dog. They wander. So, you know, the money now . . . then the dog when I'm out of here.”

I kicked the box hard, nearly toppling it on its side. Nothing moved inside or yelped in protest. I sneered at the man. He began to sweat on his top lip.

“It's asleep,” he said. “It nodded off.”

I crossed my arms in front of me.

“OK, forget it!” He snapped, snatching up the box, turning and stomping off in a cloud of indignation. I watched him go. Five feet out, he turned on angry heels and walked back, dropping the box down in front of me again.

“Do you want this dog or not?”

“Where'd you get my name?” I asked.

“What difference does that make? Do you want this mangy mutt?”

I walked away without answering.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered as I trudged away. “Absolutely
un-be-liev-able.
”

“Hey,” he shouted after me. “HEY!”

I kept walking, ignoring him.

“Nutcase,” I muttered, shaking my head. “With nothing
but
time . . .”

Suddenly, I heard the fast approach of running feet and stopped, then turned just as the man threw himself at me, his arms outstretched in a frantic grab. Down we went in a hard tackle, scrambling around in the dirt like a couple of rough-housers at recess. He had me pinned on my stomach, his clumsy fingers groping around my pockets for Conroy's reward money.

“That's it,” I grunted, gritting my teeth and bucking like a wild horse. “Don't make me hurt you!”

The guy kept groping, “WHERE'S THE MONEY!?”

“Hey, HEY, watch the hands, fool!”

I managed to wiggle my left arm free and shot him a sharp elbow to the Adam's apple, which sent him tumbling back in agony. Dazed, but just for a moment, his discomfort gave me enough time to twist over on my butt and reel off a kick to his midsection. He doubled over, grasping his stomach, but he didn't stay down long. He lunged for me again, this time his hands grabbing for my throat. I clambered out of striking range, crawling away on hands and knees, but he caught me by the ankles and flipped me over like a pancake. He pounced, but missed. As he flew toward me, I kicked up violently, landing a solid kidney punch to his right side. I scampered to my feet, just as his body smacked the ground.

“Now you're going to get it,” he threatened, rising up and charging at me like a mad bull. I quickly pulled the money out of my pocket and waved it at him, enticing him.

“This what you want?” I asked. He stopped mid-charge, his greed obviously superseding basic instincts.

“It's yours,” I said, tossing the wad to the dirt halfway between us. He went for it, bending over with great effort to pick it up. When he grabbed the bills, I hammered down with both forearms onto the back of his neck and he crumbled over in a sweaty heap. Lights out.

I pried the money wad from his unconscious hand, brushed it clean, and put it back in my pocket. Leaning down, I pulled the man's wallet from his back pocket and took out his driver's license, reading it.