This Dog for Hire (15 page)

Had I thought Alexander sounded more game than Kaminsky?

I looked out over the living room and beyond to the river. It had gotten dark already, and the bridge lights were on. You could see the traffic slowly snaking its way to and from Westchester County, across the Hudson. I took Dashiell out, and we walked up to the crest of the mountain. Despite the quiet and the beauty around me, all I could think about was the case.

Maybe Clifford Cole's death
was
the result of random hate. Louis thought it was. It was easy enough, wasn't it? You just got a few friends together, took some sticks or bats and drove through the tunnel, then headed for the Village. The latest trick was to stop the car, ask directions to a gay bar, and if the stranger you had stopped gave them to you, everyone would jump out of the car and beat him to a pulp, justifying the action with the belief that no one but a lousy faggot would know how to get to the Monster or Sneakers. It's sort of a modern-day Cinderella story, a bunch of Jersey princes going around looking for a princess, or, in this fairy tale, a queen. And when they think the shoe fits, wham.

But what about the man in the camel coat? Could there have been a ponytail under that scarf or stuffed into that beret?

When we got back to the house, Ted was sitting in front of the fireplace, a fire burning and the brandy out, picking up the glow of the flames. I sat next to him, and for a while neither of us felt the need to talk.

“Stay over,” he said after a while. “You can drive in with me in the morning.”

The brandy was burning in my stomach. I leaned against his shoulder and sighed. “I can't,” I said, the warmth of the fire on my face.

“You don't have to work tonight, do you, little sister?”

“No. But it's too quiet here. If not for Dashiell's snoring, I'd think I was dead.”

He reached behind him, but I jumped up and out of the way. Then, due to my extensive professional training and a quick wit, I managed to get the brandy snifter off to the side before the couch pillow came sailing at me and hit me square in the chest.

“You're lucky my pit bull is such a sound sleeper,” I said.

But Dashiell had awakened. He ambled over and was licking up the drops of brandy that had splashed out of my snifter when I got hit. Lili joined us then, and we talked for a couple of hours before they loaded me up with leftovers and drove me back to Nyack to catch the late bus home.

18

He Barked Twice

I had just stepped out of the shower when the phone rang. It was someone from Bailey House, the AIDS hospice at the foot of Christopher Street, saying they had heard about me and Dashiell from a caseworker who visited the Village Nursing Home, and they had both agreed that Dashiell would be an absolute godsend for their indigent AIDS patients. Since their social worker was in that morning and had a terribly tight schedule, they wondered if I could come over with Dash, say, in an hour, for a walk-through and a discussion about my adding Bailey House to Dashiell's schedule.

It was nine-thirty. I had to get over to the AKC library, check the studbooks to see if I could get some idea of how big a business Morgan Gilmore was conducting with Magritte's frozen semen, drop Dashiell off at home, hightail it over to the Garden, and see what else I could dig up about Gil from his fellow handlers. I told the person on the phone I'd be there in half an hour.

Bailey House is on the southeast corner of Christopher and West, across the highway from the Christopher Street pier. The building that houses Bailey House used to be the River Hotel. The whole top floor, with its sweeping, spectacular river views, belonged to the expensive, chic La Grande Corniche restaurant. You can still see both signs, but now homeless men and women occupy the whole building, people dying of AIDS who have nowhere else to do it.

I approached with the mixed feelings I always had doing this work. Why the hell was I here? How could I say no? Perhaps that's why Zachery says I'm only a medium-boiled detective.

Mr. Sabotini said he'd like to watch me with a few patients and see what Dashiell did, and then we could talk about the feasibility of regular visits. He was short and small with annoying little hands that fluttered constantly as he spoke, and he did that—speaking—slowly and carefully, exaggerating the enunciation of each and every syllable as if I were retarded or perhaps suffering from dementia. He was bald across the crown but had cleverly combed some long hair from the side of his head over the top and glued it down with something that made it look wet and stiff, so that of course no one could tell. And he was one of those self-important prigs who often end up working in institutions, people whose personalities are so offensive that they could never make it in any sort of private practice or in any situation where people feel they have any choice. I was ready to split when one of the patients walked into the office where we were talking and noticed Dashiell.

“Oh, God, it's Petey,” he said, falling onto his knees and embracing Dashiell without asking anything. Lots of people called Dash Petey, the pit bull with the line drawn around his eye that was in the
Our Gang
comedies.

“Hi,” I said. He didn't look up. His head was bent down against Dashiell's neck, and his arms reached way around, squeezing as tight as he could.

“He's won-der-ful,” he said, his face so thin it was barely more than a skull, his eyes shining with the look some people get shortly before they die.

“His name is Dash.”

“I'm Ronald,” he said, taking his arm from around Dashiell and pointing to himself. “Will he be coming here regular?” He sat back on his heels and tightened the belt on his robe. “I like him so much.”

“Ms. Alexander and Dashiell are here to discuss that today, Ronald,” Mr. Sabotini said.

“Rachel,” I said. “Can we walk you back to your room, Ronald?”

“Sure. Really?”

I handed him the leash and told him how to get Dashiell to heel.

Ronald was beaming. “Can I do this? Yes, I can do this. This is the most fun I ever had here.”

“Me, too,” I said. Mr. Sabotini was taking notes on a very little pad as we walked Ronald to the elevator, and seemed to miss the joke that Ronald and I were sharing.

I will say this for Robert Sabotini. He hung back and let me and Dashiell do our thing. Ronald, not Sabotini, became my guide, taking me from room to room, filling me in on names and bringing me up to date on each person's latest opportunistic illness, which Ronald referred to as an 01. He held Dash's leash and then passed it on to those who wanted to walk the big dog, too. Anyone who could, did.

I was surprised at how much I was enjoying myself, even though that's a funny term to use about a place like this. But each time we entered a room, the occupants would light up, and though their evident pleasure was because of Dashiell's presence, not mine, I still got to bask in the results. After we had visited nearly a dozen patients, Sabotini said he had seen enough and we could go downstairs and talk.

“No, wait. She di'n't meet John yet,” he said. “Gotta show John Petey, okay, pleeze, Mr. Sabotini, it'll just take a minute. You go. I'll bring her down. I know the way.”

“Well, if Ms. Alexander has the time, Ronald,” Mr. Sabotini said.

“It's fine,” I said. “We'll be down in five minutes.”

“If you're quite sure,” he said, smoothing down a hair that had come unstuck.

“She is. She's quite sure,” Ronald said.

We watched Sabotini leaving like two little kids watching the teacher leave the room. Ronald took my hand and pulled me down the hall to a room at the end, near the window.

“This is John's room. I love him, John. He's so funny. He could always cheer you up, no matter what he has.” Then he put his hand at the side of his mouth and in a dramatic aside told me, “He has KS. Kaposi's sarcoma,” he said, enunciating carefully in a witty parody of Sabotini. “That's
can
cer,” he explained. “Don't say nothin'. It makes bumps and dark spots, you know, on your skin, and John's real self-conscious about looking ugly.”

“Okay,” I told him, “I'll be cool.”

We entered the small, sunny room with only one of the beds occupied, the other stripped, meaning John's roommate had recently died. Here you checked in, but you didn't check out.

Even though he was under the covers, I could see that John was unusually tall. He was also unusually thin, a not quite gaunt mocha-colored man with a bad case of KS, his face as lumpy as a flophouse mattress. He wasn't as thin as Ronald, who had wasting syndrome, but he was no Refrigerator Perry either. When he spoke, I heard the unclear, raspy voice that meant he had severe thrush, another sign of a system going down.

“Who you brings, man? You brother?” he said to Ronald. Then he began coughing into a small towel that had been lying next to him on the bed.

Ronald lit up. “See, Rachel, I told you. Isn't he funny? No, John, it's
your
brother. Only kidding. It's Petey. From
Our Gang
.”

“Yeah. And who I be? Buckwheat?” he said, coughing again.

“This is Dash. And I'm Rachel.” I put out my hand, but he brushed at the air instead of taking it.

“You wanna walk him? He walks real nice,” Ronald said, holding out Dashiell's leash. But I could see that John was not up to getting out of bed.

“'Nother time,” John said. “I takes him next time. Shows him where I use t' live. He like it they. Be real spacious.” Then he began to cough again. I began to feel he was beyond where a visit from a dog could interest him, but a moment later, he asked if Dash knew how to bark. I told him yes and he asked me if I would show him.

“You can do it yourself, John. Just tell him
speak
.”

“Will he?”

“Yes. Try him.”

He shook his head, then lay back and closed his eyes. “I'n wants t'
do
it. I needs t'
hear
it.”

I said Dashiell's name and asked him to speak. He barked twice, a booming, deep roar, his front legs coming off the floor, his ears flying up, then flapping back down like a bird's wings at takeoff.

John's eyes stayed shut, his lips spreading wide into a smile.

“'S true, what I hears,” he asked, eyes still closed, “a barking dog don't bite?”

I opened my mouth to disappoint him with the answer, but I didn't get the chance.

“Wunt touch 'at sucker wit no ten-foot pole. Wunt bark no how.”

“He just did,” I said. I was about to signal Dash to bark again when John spoke again.

“You comes back. This dog I likes.”

“I will,” I promised.

“I will,” he repeated, smiling.

Ronald and I headed downstairs to Sabotini's office to cut a deal. A few minutes later Dashiell and I were in a taxi heading uptown to Madison Avenue and the American Kennel Club library. Dashiell spent the ride making nose prints on the right-side passenger window as I watched the city pull by us on the other side.

Sabotini had given me a list of patient names and room numbers as well as a batch of forms so that I could take some brief notes for him, but I had only glanced at the pages before folding them and putting them into my purse. For now, I had to see what I could find out about the illegal activities of one Morgan “No Problem” Gilmore.

The American Kennel Club library is a place where no librarian would ever have to say
Shhh
; from what I have always been able to see, it's one of the best-kept secrets in New York. The only other person I've ever seen there is the librarian.

The studbooks register the pedigree, that is, the sire and dam, of a dog or bitch that has been used at stud or has whelped a litter for the first time. They also contain the name of the owner of each dog listed and the breeder of that dog. What I would be looking for would be Magritte's name, Ch. Ceci N'Est Pas un Chien, as a sire, to get an idea of how many of his offspring had been bred last year.

Not all the dogs Magritte sired would be on this list. Some would never be bred, some would still be too young to breed, or, if they had been bred before, they wouldn't show up because the list was for first-time parents only. Still, it would give me an idea of what Gil was doing, and it was also the best way of complying with laws one and three.

I made careful notes whenever Magritte's name showed up. In fact, by poring carefully over the register for the previous year, I found the listing of when Magritte was first used at stud. It appeared that Morgan Gilmore had been using Magritte at stud and stealing the fees for a little better than two years. With a bitch, that wouldn't mean much. But in the case of a dog, whose work didn't take much time at all, even less when his sperm was banked, it could mean a lot of puppies sired and a lot of money paid in stud fees.

When I had finished with the studbook registers, I opened my bag to put in the notes I had taken and took out the papers Robert Sabotini had given me. The forms to fill out for each patient were fairly predictable, mostly things to check off such as: patient was up and about, patient remained in bed, patient responded to dog, patient did not respond to dog. There was a small space for any comment I wanted to make, and supposedly these notes and comments would be used by Sabotini and the staff to make the patients I visited more comfortable or happier. In some places that was so. In others, the forms got filed unread. But either way, on some visits Dash might make the patients forget about their illness for a few minutes; on others he might help them talk about it, if that's what they needed to do. I was sure at least two of them were already looking forward to his next visit.

I put the pages one behind the other as I looked them over until I got to the list of patients Sabotini wanted me to see. There were only six names on the list, those, it seemed from my visit today, who were responding least to other stimuli. He was sending us to the most depressed patients at the hospice, even though the place was small enough for me to visit everyone. Ronald's name was not on the list, but I was sure he'd want to escort me again. John's name was given as John W. Doe. Veiy original, they gave him a middle initial. Perhaps they kept track of their John Does by coding them alphabetically, the way busy dog breeders code their litters, never mixing the Ivy, Iris, and Irving puppies with the Jack, Jake, and Jessica ones. That theory would make John the twenty-third John Doe, unless it was the second or third time around the alphabet.