A Hell of a Dog (6 page)

Tracy and Audrey were at the big gilt-framed mirror, reapplying war paint. I apologized to Audrey for my little joke and went into the cubicle, figuring out of sight, out of mind.

“I'm not sure,” Audrey was saying. “I mean, I was with him both nights in Phoenix, but I don't like his method.”

In any other circumstances, you'd think she was talking about someone's method of lovemaking. But here, they could only be talking about training methods.

For a moment they stopped talking. I heard a compact close. I smelled perfume.

“He's married, isn't he?” Tracy asked.

“He never said.”

“But I heard—”

“What if he is? He never brings her. How great could it be?”

“Maybe she has money,” Tracy said.

“That would explain it.”

I heard giggling that reminded me of the bathroom in junior high. Or what happened after lights-out in camp.

“Am I okay?” Audrey asked.

Since she was a psychic, I would have thought she would have known.

Tracy must have nodded. I heard a purse click shut. And then a door.

I left the cubicle and went over to the mirror, letting my hair loose so that it would dry. That's when I noticed the shoes in the cubicle to the left, so I waited.

I heard the flush. I could see the door opening. And there was Beryl.

“Lively little things, aren't they?” she said, fishing around in her pocket for something. “When the cat's away,” she said, pulling out a big handkerchief and blowing her nose, “the cat will play, won't he?”

But before I got the chance to comment, the door opened.

“There you two are,” Sam said. “You're missing a whale of a
discussion
out there.”

She was grinning, so I knew it wasn't an emergency, just the usual. She went into one of the booths. I had the feeling it wouldn't stop her from carrying on a conversation. Beryl had the same idea. A finger to her lips, she grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the door.

“Woody started it,” Sam was saying. “He just couldn't—”

Beryl led me out and inched the door closed.

“There. That's better,” she said. “I do love Americans,” she said, “but you all talk too much.”

So, of course, on the walk back to the Truman Salon, I didn't utter a word.

Bucky was gesturing at Woody with his cigar. “Give me the dog that air-scents every time. You're talking life and death here, people, not Stupid Pet Tricks. If the victim goes in circles for an hour, then the—”

“I have no argument with that, Bucky,” Woody said softly, but not so softly that everyone didn't turn to listen to what he had to say. “But you can't make a blanket statement that one method is best in all situations. In the search for evidence, for example, the dog has to track. He has to make those circles. He has to go precisely where—”

“Sometimes it's not up to the trainer,” Chip said, clearly annoyed. “Sometimes the dog's method is the dog's method. What you need to do is—”

“What you need is this,” Alan said. He'd slipped the remote from the holster on his belt and was pointing it at Chip as if he were an errant dog in need of a correction. Or a TV whose channel needed changing. “This is what makes all the difference, gets the dog to keep his mind on his work, get to the victim as quickly as possible. I bet you that—”

“Don't bet nothing, you'll be sorry if you do,” Boris said. “Because you'll not only lose your money, you'll lose expression, too.”

“Face, Boris, face,” Alan said, rolling his eyes. “You've been here how many years? Ten? Twenty? Isn't it time you mastered the language?”

Bucky sat back, puffing on his cigar, stroking Angelo, who was on his lap. He seemed to be enjoying himself, one of those people who thrived on conflict.

“I've found that dogs are really getting mental pictures from the victims and that they—”

“Half the time they're
dead
, Audrey,” Alan shouted at her. “You think they're sending mental pictures after they've died? Or after they've been eaten by a bear? When I was living out in Montana, we had to try to locate a guy who'd gone missing eight months earlier. We were in the mountains for five days, looking for something that would let his wife sell his business and go on with her life. Finally, we found it. She had him declared dead on the basis of a belt buckle. It was all that was left. Sending pictures!”

“Ladies, gentlemen,” Woody said, standing up to make sure he had our attention. “We're all here to teach and learn. Couldn't we—”

“
Learn?
” Alan sneered. “From whom? A psychic? Duh.”

“From each other,” Sam said, glancing quickly over at me, as if to say, See? then looking back at Alan. She was standing in the doorway and had probably heard the “discussion” from down the hall. “Wasn't that one of the appeals of doing this?”

“You'll learn from the students too,” Woody said, “if you listen to their concerns and their questions.”

“They won't have anything to teach us about tracking, because they won't be present,” Alan said in disgust, “and tracking is what we are discussing, isn't it? I wish the rest of you could stay on the track. Cutesy-poo pet owners coming to this mistake are going to illuminate professionals on a subject they know nothing about? Get real,” he said, shaking his head.

“You really are an ignoramus, aren't you?” Bucky said. “I've been trying like hell to understand why anyone in his right mind would choose a method as unnecessary and inhumane as the one you use and promote when dogs are so willing to learn and work, and now I know. You're just plain stupid.”

“Maybe you'd understand better if I did a reading on Beau,” Audrey said to Alan. “I can tell you already, he has a lot he wants to share with you, but he's been afraid to try.”

With that, Alan turned to Cathy Powers, at his left, and repeated what Audrey had just said, using a high, squeaky voice that was meant to imitate hers, his arms up, his wrists limp.

“Maybe you'd understand better,” he said, “if I did a
reading
on Beau,” he began, exaggerating for emphasis.

Cathy didn't know where to look.

“I can tell you already,” Alan squeaked, grimacing as he spoke, “he has a lot he wants to
share
with you.” He stopped and turned toward Audrey, who was holding Magic up on her shoulder as if the pug were a baby in need of a burp. “Give me a break, Pocahontas. You may fool the naive pet owner with that mumbo jumbo, in fact I hear you do pretty well for yourself, but here? Please.”

“It's not necessary to get so personal, folks,” Chip said, getting up to leave.

“Good idea,” Woody said, “why don't we call it a night?”

“Yeah,” Alan said, “we have a whole week to become mortal enemies.”

“Oh dear,” Beryl said. She was still holding my arm and now began to tug me toward the doorway.

Once more I heard Alan committing a cardinal offense. This time it was Betty he was maligning, just as Chip was leaving with her. “Isn't she tall for a shepherd?” he asked no one in particular, just loud enough so that he would be sure everyone heard him.

“I've had enough. Haven't you?” Beryl asked.

Only two of the guests had paid any attention to us, so both saw us gesture and got up to follow. Once outside the dining room, they cut loose, tearing up and down the hallway, chasing each other as if there were no tomorrow.

“Let's take them out for a little air,” I said. “It'll be safer if we go out together.”

“I could use a little air myself,” she said. “Not that there wasn't plenty in there—all of it hot, though.” But then she looked at her watch. “Where does the time go?” she said. “A quick piddle for you, my sweetheart,” she said, addressing the terrier and not me, “and then off to our room. I've a call to make before it gets much later. And then to bed.”

It was nearly eleven, and we were due to meet for tracking at six. Still, I wondered if I ought to go back inside. Had they been arguing about food training, I'd have stayed. That could get deadly. But an argument about tracking wasn't going to go anywhere. In the morning, after Chip's demo, everyone would still believe what they believed tonight, no one's opinion altered, no harm done, except to the possibility of camaraderie, just as if they'd been arguing about religion or politics.

Beryl and I walked out of the hotel onto Central Park West. Cecilia went straight to the curb. A moment later, Beryl scooped her up and carried her back inside.

I headed north, toward the Dakota, Dashiell running on ahead, then waiting for me at the corner. At Seventy-second Street I stopped and looked up at the turrets standing out against the moonlit sky. Then, thinking of the astonishment that must have been on John Lennon's face in the last conscious moment of his life, I turned back toward the Ritz, Dashiell close at my side.

6

WE SAW THE
TODAY SHOW

When I passed the Truman Salon, I could hear their voices. As I was contemplating going back inside, Woody Wright opened the door and came out, followed by his flashy brindle boxer bitch, her tail docked but her ears natural.

“They're still going strong,” he said, holding the door for me.

“Had enough?” I asked.

“Years ago.” He let the door close. “I thought you left the business, Rachel. I haven't seen your ad for a long time.”

“Oh, lying low,” I said. “Working on referrals and trying to write a book.”

“That's definitely the way to go. Do a little Oprah, get a big reputation, host your own TV show. I guess that's what Bucky's aiming for.”

“How about you?”

He ran his hand through his short, curly gray hair. “I don't think so, Rachel. I'm happiest when I'm outside, working the dogs. Writing, that's too scary for me.” He put a warm hand on my arm and gave it a squeeze. “See you in the morning.”

I watched him walking away, Rhonda's cute little tail pointing straight up at the ceiling and then suddenly wagging furiously from side to side like a miniature metronome. She began sneezing, too. Woody must have just asked her if she wanted to go out.

I looked down at Dashiell, who was looking back at me. As soon as he had my eye, he looked at the door to the Truman Salon. I guess he needed to see if Betty was still inside.

Alan was gone. I would be too if I had to get up before five. But Boris, who also had to get up an hour and a half before the rest of us, was still there, his cigar butt smoldering in an ashtray, “wodka” in his hand instead of brandy.

I saw Betty, but no Chip. Audrey was gone. So was Tracy. And as I joined the party, Sam got up to leave. A tired-looking waiter asked me if I wanted a brandy. I nodded—when in Rome and all that—and sat back in my chair, listening to Bucky King, who was still going strong. Some people will do that as long as they have an audience, even of one.

“‘So,' Brad said, ‘does he bite?'” Bucky was saying. “And I said, ‘Not
you
, pally. He's a borzoi. The only thing he wants in his mouth is caviar.'”

He took a sip of brandy.

“Truth is, the dog had taken a real dislike to him, but we had to get the scene shot, didn't we?” He grinned. His dead white caps stood out against his chemical tan.

Chip walked in and took the chair next to mine. We were down to five—Chip, Bucky, Boris, Rick Shelbert, who hadn't uttered two words all evening, and myself. For a moment there was only the sound of dogs snoring. It seemed like a good idea to me.

I got up, which woke Dashiell, and we headed for the door. Before it had closed behind me, I saw Chip getting up too. I walked toward the stairs, hoping to avoid another embarrassing exchange, but then Betty was in the hall and there was no way I could get Dashiell's attention without being obvious.

“This is pretty much why I don't do these things,” he said.

“But Sam seduced you this time.”

“The money was irresistible,” he said quietly. “You, too?”

“More or less,” I said.

“That's usually not how I make my decisions. But Ellen—” He stopped and looked at me for the first time. “She's been talking about moving to California, so the extra cash will come in handy.”

Why did my stomach tighten at the thought of never seeing Chip again? What difference did it make if he was in New York or California? He was cementing himself to someone else, not me. Next thing I knew, he and Ellen would be having another kid. My sister and brother-in-law were about to go on a cruise. Jack and I had redecorated, as if a little paint or a new couch would do the trick and bridge the void between us. The things people did when their relationships were deteriorating always astonished me. Anything seemed preferable to the thought of being alone.

“California. That sounds great,” I said, starting to hate the sound of my own insincerity. Who was I fooling here?

“Rachel, it's—”

“Time to turn in,” I said. “Dashiell needs his beauty rest.” And before he could finish whatever he had started to say, I called Dashiell and headed for the stairs.

I guess Chip still had to walk Betty, because when we'd walked up the flight to three, the hallway was empty. I unlocked the door to 305, tossed my jacket onto the end of the bed, and without bothering to turn on the light, walked over to the window and pulled the drape aside.

It was raining lightly. The park across the street looked as pretty as it did in those picture postcards tourists from Iowa send home to their neighbors.

“We saw the
Today
show.

“I had my hair done at Macy's.

“Wish you were here.”

The maid had turned down the bed, and Dashiell was on it, smack in the middle, licking himself noisily. I looked back out the window and saw Chip and Betty walking along the stone wall that limned the western border of the park. Betty was slightly ahead of him, looking out for danger. I watched until they turned into the park and I could no longer see them.