A Hell of a Dog (12 page)

Woody had walked away from the table and turned his back to us. I could see him nodding as he talked into the phone. I could see the tension in his neck and shoulders. When he took his seat again, he was frowning.

Then Boris got up and walked away from the table with Sasha. “Sasha now sink Star-Spangled Banner,” he said so seriously that for the moment there wasn't a sound in the room. He hummed, as if to give Sasha the right key, then he turned back to face us again. “Boris teach this to Sasha because he is happy to be American dog trainer.” He bowed his head and turned back to face the big Rottie, lifting his arms as if he were about to conduct the Boston Pops. No one was breathing. He turned again, the dog waiting patiently for his cue. “Boris loves this land, land of the free, home of the braves.”

Boris waited, then turned to us yet again. I felt my stomach lurch, as if I were the one doing all that turning.

“You must be much more drunk than you look,” he said. It took us a moment to realize he was right; honest to God, until then, we were waiting for Boris's Rottweiler to sing “The Star Spangled Banner.”

Everyone began to look around the table sheepishly. “We do have to work tomorrow,” Bucky said. “I think I'll be me first.” He reached into the pile of keys and picked out his. “Good night, folks.”

Cathy picked up the remaining five keys.

“404,” she said. Rick began to stand, stumbled, and sat back down hard. We all laughed, relieved that it was he and not us. Cathy whistled and Sky picked up his head, but she tossed Rick's room key to Freud. And when he caught it, everyone clapped.

“305.”

I raised one hand, and she tossed the key. It landed with a thunk on my dessert plate to thunderous applause. Once again, we were on a roll.

Cathy palmed the next key and dropped it on her lap. But Sky hadn't picked her pocket, had he?

“405,” she said.

“Oh, that's me, dear. Have your clever dog bring it over. Beryl's too potted to catch it.”

But Cathy merely handed the key across the empty space where Alan Cooper would have been sitting. “That leaves key number 306.” She held up the last key, the brass tag with the number of the room hanging down. Sky, Cecilia, and Dashiell all stood. Sky barked. Dashiell did a paws-up and turned to look at me. Cecilia landed on the table and walked between, but never on, the dirty dishes. But she stopped before getting to the dangling key. There was a lovely piece of brie on one of the dessert plates, and it made her forget why she'd jumped up onto the table in the first place.

“Naughty girl,” Beryl said, lifting her off the table. Boris stood and reached for his key. Then one by one, we gathered ourselves up, took our dogs out front for a quick one, and headed off to what we dreaded, the silence of our own rooms and time to think, although with the amount of vodka consumed in the last few hours, only those of us with cast-iron stomachs would be awake for long.

I walked down the front steps of the hotel with Dashiell and turned south, walking downtown toward the tip of the park, glad I had stopped drinking halfway into the evening. There were times I was happy that Dashiell was a pit bull and not a Chihuahua, and this was certainly one of them. The streets were empty; even the traffic was sparse. I walked Dashiell down to Central Park South, hoping the sight of all those hotels and restaurants would cheer me up, but everything was closed up tight until morning.

We headed back to the Ritz, Dashiell close to my side. As we approached the hotel, I looked up at the stone facade, almost medieval looking, the way the building loomed over me street, most of the large windows draped and dark. None of the others were out. They had probably just gone across the street and walked their dogs along the wall that separated the park from the avenue.

I took the stairs, noticing the way the carpet was worn on the side nearest the wooden banister rather than in the middle or on the side of the wall. I could hear the whine of the elevator when I got up to three, but it continued on up to a higher floor.

My room was dark. I kept it that way. There were only a few hours left until morning. I spent one of them sitting at the window, staring out at the park and up at the dark sky above, thinking about life and death and the stuff that happens in between, afraid to give myself over to the possibility of dreaming until staying awake any longer was completely out of the question, at which point I was grateful for the second time that evening that I harbored a pit bull rather than a Chihuahua. Pressed against Dashiell's back, I finally fell into a fitful sleep.

12

I HOPE YOU'RE WRITING YOUR PARENTS

Since we'd heard about Alan's death, no one had mentioned an early-morning program for Tuesday. It was a miracle we were all up for breakfast and to attend Cathy's talk on basic training for puppies at ten. Twice I saw little pill vials being passed left, then right. Excedrin, I figured, or Advil. Even Boris was quiet, for Boris. But he had ordered more food than anyone else, perhaps just his way of showing off his powerful constitution. It remained to be seen if the food would actually be eaten.

Cathy poked at a small bowl of fruit, rearranging it rather than eating it. I was wondering where she'd get the energy for her talk.

Audrey had ordered a soft-boiled egg, but she was feeding it to Magic and hadn't even touched her coffee.

Chip had finished two cups of coffee already and was signaling the waiter to bring a third.

Martyn was eating a sweet roll. The sight of the gooey icing made me look away.

Beryl was finishing off a plate of bacon and eggs. Her half grapefruit, looking like a toothless mouth now, had been pushed off to the side, and there was an empty cereal bowl near her plate as well.

Rick Shelbert had an appetite too. His food arrived just as I sat down, a big bowl of cereal with bananas, apples, berries, and whole almonds on top. He began picking off the fruit and eating it even before adding milk and sugar.

But Boris was clearly the champion. He seemed to already have consumed a Russian man–sized portion of pancakes, and was starting on a plate of runny fried eggs with home fries, mopping up the first leaking yolk with a hunk of buttered white bread. I watched for a moment to see if Sasha was chewing, but he was fast asleep behind Boris's chair, which meant not only did Boris have an appetite, but he'd had the energy to take his dog out for a long hike before breakfast.

“American police,” he said, shaking his head, “I don't understand how people think in this country. Boris gets ticket in park. Spoils whole day.”

Pieces of pancake and bread were stuck in his mustache. At least, that's what I hope was stuck there.

“Dogs aren't allowed off leash in Central Park, Boris,” Bucky was quick to tell him. “You're American dog trainer,” he said, looking around at the rest of us for appreciation of his wit, “you ought to know that, pally.”

“Sasha was on leash, wise guy.”

“Then why the ticket?” Sam asked, an unbitten piece of toast in her hand.

“For answering call of nature.”

“Didn't you pick up?” Audrey asked.

“Ticket not for Sasha's call. Boris had call.”

No one spoke, but Boris had our attention.

“What you supposed to do? Boris have coffee. Boris walk dog. Boris have to go. Cop gives hundred-dollar ticket. Sasha doesn't get ticket for doing same thing. Why Sasha's pee okay, and Boris's pee no good?”

We all started laughing, but Rick began to laugh so hard he couldn't stop. For a moment, I watched him enjoying himself. But then I noticed tears coming out of his eyes and running down his cheeks, and a moment later he was drained of color and gasping for air. I expected to see him reach for his inhaler, but he didn't. Still wheezing, a look of panic on his face, he slid off his chair, knocking it sideways as he fell, the spoon he was holding still in his hand.

Chip jumped up and began lifting him.

“Get his inhaler out of his pocket,” I said, standing and almost knocking over my chair.

“He's choking,” Chip said. He sat Rick up and put his arms around his chest, trying the Heimlich maneuver, but nothing popped out of his mouth. Still, it must have helped, because that awful wheezing noise had stopped. There wasn't a sound in the room. I figured whatever he'd been choking on had come loose.

Chip, still sitting on the floor with Rick leaning on his chest, looked relieved. I heard him take a deep breath, but then a look of horror came over his face. Rick's eyes were open, but his chest wasn't moving.

“We're losing him,” Chip shouted.

Rick wasn't just pale now, he was ashen, and his lips were turning blue. Woody stood, pulled out his cell phone, and punched in three numbers. Martyn was up now, too. He and Chip were laying Rick flat on the floor. As a veterinarian, even though his specialty was behavior, Martyn was the closest thing we had to what Rick so desperately needed. He wiped the spittle and food off Rick's mouth with his napkin, then opened it and swept inside with his pointer, wiping whatever was there onto his own pants leg, cradling Rick's head with the other hand as he did so.

Chip pulled off his jacket, rolled it up, and placed it under Rick's neck so that his head would tilt back. I saw Martyn reach for Rick's nose, then lean forward to blow air into his mouth, and for a moment all I could see was the back of Martyn's head, his neck glistening with sweat.

I ran for the front desk. Even if Woody had dialed 911, the front desk might get faster results calling the closest hospital or the local precinct. But no one was behind the desk. I rang the bell that sat on the counter and waited, banging on it again when no one seemed to be responding. But then the heavy oak door to the left of the counter opened, and the clerk appeared, a man in his seventies who moved as if he had all the time in the world. I didn't. And neither did Rick. I wanted to leap over the counter and pull the clerk toward me to make sure he understood what I was going to say.

“There's been an accident in the breakfast room. I want you to call the nearest hospital.”

“Another accident?” he asked, incredulous.

“Someone choked on food. Please make the call, now.”

“Nine one one's the fastest,” he said, picking up the phone and searching the number pad for the nine. I heard him repeating what I'd told him and giving the address of the hotel. “They said they're on the way,” he said, placing the phone down carefully. “Do you want to wait out front for them?”

“No,” I said. “Just send them to the breakfast room as soon as they get here. Tell them to run.”

But when I got back to the breakfast room, I saw there was no longer a reason for the emergency medical team to hurry. Chip, holding his rolled-up jacket in one hand, caught my eye and shook his head.

Rick was lying where he'd been placed, just behind the chair he'd been sitting on, the remains of his breakfast still on the table, the cereal spoon still in his hand.

“He's gone,” Martyn said. “I couldn't save him.”

I looked for Sam, but she was no longer in the room. When I walked out, she was coming toward me, down the hall.

“I don't understand,” she said. “Why is this happening? Two of my speakers are dead in two days. This is a nightmare.” She opened her purse and took out a pillbox.

“What's that?”

“Generic aspirin. Why?”

“Never mind,” I said, noting that the two pills she shook into her hand were tamperproof caplets. “I just wanted to be sure—”

Sam stopped, her hand holding the pills cupped beneath her mouth. Then she dumped them back into the pillbox, turned on her heel, and walked toward the lobby. I followed behind her and caught up.

“I don't want you even
near
the EMS or the police, Rachel. If this is something more than another ghastly accident, they'll tell us. I'm sure they'll autopsy, especially considering how quickly my speakers are dropping dead. But for God's sake, don't you put any ideas into their heads.” She looked at her watch. “It's thirty-five minutes to show time,” she said. “I hope Cathy can pull herself together.”

“What are you going to say when the ambulance arrives?”

“That it's their fault Dr. Shelbert is dead. It's twelve minutes since they were called.”

“More like fifteen,” I said. “I think Woody called them on his cell phone.”

“Rachel, help me out here.”

“I'll talk to Cathy, make sure she's up to her talk.”

“Tell her she's got to be.”

The ambulance had arrived. I could hear the techs in the lobby, joking around and taking their time. Sam headed in that direction. I hurried back to the breakfast room.

Cathy was sitting at her place with her head between her knees. The persons who sat on either side of her for meals were both dead. Tracy stood behind her, holding a napkin against Cathy's neck. I watched as she took it away, dipped it into a water glass, and then put it back on Cathy's neck, her other hand holding Cathy's forehead.

I called Beryl over to the doorway. “Would you help me out?”

She nodded without asking what it was I wanted.

“See if you can get everyone out of here, but keep them together. See if the café is open, and take them in there. Sam asked me to get Cathy out of here and help her to pull herself together. She's on in thirty minutes.”

“Right you are, dear. The show must go on, and it's not doing anyone any good to sit here staring at poor Dr. Shelbert lying there dead.”

As I walked over to Cathy, I heard Beryl clearing her throat to get everyone's attention.

“You're speaking this morning.” I took the napkin from Tracy and dropped it onto the table. “In thirty minutes, to be precise. You need to get out of here, get a little air, and get your thoughts together.”

“I don't think I can—”

“Look, Cathy, there are people out there who know nothing about what just happened. They've come from a great distance to hear you, to hear all of us. As tragic as this is, it would be a disaster to cancel the symposium and send them home. In fact, we can't do that. The hotel has been paid for the week. Speakers and students alike have nonrefundable tickets. And we all owe Sam. If for no other reason, we have to come through for her. Now, can you do this?”