As Dog Is My Witness (26 page)

In a day and a half, I assured myself, the house
would belong to its usual occupants. Even Warren seemed a little
relieved. He occasionally picked his head up off the floor and
looked at us, particularly while meat was being served to anyone
anywhere near the table.

I was determined to see the better side of Abby’s
family, but I couldn’t figure out how to do that without climbing
under the table. Howard would clearly have been happier if his
younger sister had married someone more like him, and Andrea didn’t
actually exist on Planet Earth. She was in a place where talking
about something and doing it were roughly the same thing, as if you
could get pregnant by saying “let’s go to bed.” Which, come to
think of it, might have been how she got pregnant to begin
with.

Dylan, I had decided, was treated as a prince, but
actually was the spawn of Satan, so calling him “Prince of
Darkness” wasn’t necessarily that great a stretch. I realize it’s
not nice to brand a 15-year-old boy, but then, as Shakespeare once
noted, some people are just pains in the ass.

At the moment, he was trying to attack Ethan’s eating
habits again. This is a particularly sore spot for Ethan, who knows
his AS makes him “pickier” than most kids, but for whom venturing
outside his accepted range of foods is a downright terrifying idea.
He wants to be more like other people, but not if it entails
actually changing the way he is. It’s a difficult concept, and not
made any better by teasing.

“How come you’re eating spaghetti when the rest of us
are having turkey?” Dylan did his best not to sneer, but failed.
“Are you allergic or something?”

“No,” Ethan answered, his face reddening a bit.

“Well, then why?”

“It’s okay for Ethan to eat what he wants to eat,
honey,” Andrea cooed to her son. “You eat what the adults
have.”

“I’m having turkey, too,” Leah noted, “and I’m not a
grownup.”

Before any more scintillating banter, I decided to
jump in and emphasize one of Ethan’s strengths. “So Ethan,” I said,
“I found out about Kevin Fowler’s phone calls from Indiana.” I told
him that Rodriguez had confirmed, through phone records, Kevin’s
sham phone number in Muncie that rang through to his cell
phone.

“So that means he didn’t have to be in Indiana when
he called, but he could be anywhere, since his cell phone goes
wherever he goes,” Ethan said.

“Very good,” I said. “That’s exactly what it
means.”

“Big deal,” said Dylan. “I could have figured
that
out.”

I couldn’t help it. “Maybe you could have,” I said
quietly. “But Ethan
did.
” Leah, of all people, snickered at
that.

Andrea gave me a sharp look, as if to say that I
shouldn’t trample on her precious child’s self-esteem, but somebody
had to, since the kid had about seven pounds more self-esteem than
he actually merited. I did not continue the line of conversation,
however.

Ethan did. “Do you think Kevin killed Michael
Huston?” he asked, with his mother’s cut-to-the-chase
directness.

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “But I really
don’t think Justin did, no matter what he says.”

Leah chirped up at exactly the right time. “Was there
any blood on Justin’s clothes?” she asked. “If the guy who shot him
was using that old gun you were talking about, he’d have to stand
pretty close, right? So there’d be blood on his clothes,
right?”

“Oh, really!” said Howard. “Is this the kind of
conversation we want to have with our children at dinner?”
Personally, I didn’t see why not, especially since I hadn’t
considered Leah’s question before. But I didn’t say anything.

“I think Leah made a good point,” said a voice from
across the room. Abigail, at the stove seasoning mashed potatoes in
a way that would make them taste like something (a skill I have
never developed), chimed in. “That was very good thinking,
Leah.”

Leah beamed. Stunned by this strange reversal in his
sister’s behavior, Howard stared at Abby. Since he was her brother,
he didn’t stare the way most men stare at Abby. He was absolutely
shocked.

“I don’t see how this is helping to develop the
children’s manners,” he said. Maybe she’d simply misunderstood, or
wasn’t picking up the cues properly.

“Maybe not,” said his sister, “but it’s an
interesting conversation, and they’re developing their analytical
skills.”

It would have been unseemly for me to leap up and
cover my wife with kisses, and besides, it would have delayed the
mashed potatoes, so I kept my seat. But I’ve rarely been more glad
to be married to Abigail Stein. And keep in mind, I’m
never
not glad to be married to Abigail Stein.

Howard, on the other hand, was auditioning for a
government grant to raise fumphering to an art form. “I just
. . .  I don’t . . .  This
is. . .  he said, and never quite got a full
sentence out.

Abigail, an unfamiliar twinkle in her eye, stole a
glance at me, and it was everything I could do to keep from
applauding. “Personally,” said my wife, “I think the gangsters
rubbed Michael out because he was behind in his gambling
debts.”

“Wow, Mom,” Ethan gasped. “Do you really think so?
Mr. Shapiro told Dad he didn’t do it.”

“Yeah,” said Leah, “I’m sure that a guy who kills
people and robs them and stuff would
never
lie.”

Ethan, who has had to learn such things from scratch,
said to her, “That was sarcasm, wasn’t it?”

“The official family language,” I chimed in.

Howard, eyes doing 360’s in their sockets, was
clearly in the throes of a desperately hard choice: endure this
unsavory conversational turn and his sister’s astonishing defiance,
or miss out on a free meal.

It was a tough choice, but cheapness won. He stayed
through dinner, and, the instant he finished eating, fled for the
basement and a copy of a Jean-Claude Sartre tract. Andrea followed
shortly after, feeling a sudden need to help clean up, something
she hadn’t done for the five days they’d been in New Jersey. She
and Abby had been lost in a quiet conversation for some time, and
then Andrea also disappeared into the bowels of our home. Dylan,
allowed now to get his video game fix, ran upstairs to beat Ethan
to the PlayStation, and Ethan, just as happy, resumed his usual
television schedule by tuning in
The Fairly Oddparents
, a
cartoon show designed specifically to drive anyone over the age of
sixteen to suicide.

I told Abby I’d be glad to take Warren for his
constitutional tonight, and although she seemed surprised, agreed
to skip the walk she usually enjoyed. It was possible the sub-zero
wind chill factor played a part in her decision, although it had
nothing to do with mine. She agreed to work on a Chanukah gift
list, since the Festival of Keeping Up with the Goyim was starting
unusually late this year, two days after Christmas, the holiday
that unfortunately does not end all holidays.

I put on the Aaron Tucker outerwear collection (which
means I collected all the outerwear I could find, regardless of
whose clothing it might be), saddled up the dog, who was thrilled
to be going out— and would be during an Ice Age—and ventured out
into weather that was, apparently, not fit for man but okay for
beast.

Naturally, it was dark, but even so, I had become
accustomed to looking for, and not seeing, my three felonious
angels outside the door. There was no sign of
anyone
, let
alone three extremely large gentlemen who—for all I knew—were also
packing heat. So I was deliberate and careful in approaching the
usual dog route. I let Warren take care of his initial task, which
involves the lifting of legs, at the first tree we encountered, and
then sauntered casually to the corner.

Once there, in a conversational tone, I said to the
dog, “I know I’m not being followed, but if I were, it would be
good to see the people following me in a couple of minutes.” Warren
looked up, blinked, and went back to sniffing the curb for remnants
of something I’d rather not think about that might have been there
three months earlier. Warren is very thorough, and has a nose that
can pick up smells as far away as Moscow.

Sure enough, when we got to the same corner where we
first encountered Moe, Larry, and Silent Bob, they were already
standing there, in plain sight, although their faces were mostly
obscured by hoods, scarves, and various freeze-resisting
accessories.

“You gotta figure dogs think we worship them,” Big
said when we arrived.

“How’s that?” It was nice not to have to deal in the
usual niceties of conversation.

“They lie around the house all day, we feed them and
give them shelter, and when they take a dump, we pick it up and
bring it home in a bag. They’ve got to figure they’re gods.” He had
a point, but I’d never let him know it.

“You have a point,” I said.

“You wanted to see us?” Big said. Warren, unlike
Karen Huston’s dog, did not warm up to people he didn’t like, no
matter how many times he encountered them (probably because he’s
not bright enough to remember he’s encountered them before). So he
was growling at the three Grand Tetons, and I held his leash
tightly.

“I’d prefer not to have you around, but in this case,
yes,” I answered.

“Is that nice?” Bigger asked through a muffler. “He
says he wants to see us, and then complains when we’re always
around. Makes a guy feel unwanted.”

“Sorry,” I told him. “I didn’t realize you were such
a sensitive fellow.”

“I’m a regular Dr. Phil,” he answered.

“What can we do for you?” Big asked as Warren gave up
the growling and set himself up for the evening’s
entertainment.

“I’m glad you asked me that question,” I said.

I
t was Christmas Eve, or at
least December 24th, and under normal circumstances, it’s
impossible to get anyone on the phone. I realize Christmas is a big
holy day and everything, but I think the British duo “Everything
but the Girl” put it best when they said of Yuletide, “It’s cold,
and there’s nothing to do.”

Jews, at least those of us who live on the East Coast
of the United States, have very specific Christmas traditions, and
they vary remarkably little from family to family, town to town, or
state to state: we go to the movies, and then out for Chinese
food.

That wouldn’t happen until tomorrow, however, so I
had one more day to decide who had killed Michael Huston, who was
sabotaging Mahoney’s cars, and finish the revisions on the
screenplay for Waterman. In that sentence, “finish” is a relative
term because I hadn’t actually started the revisions yet. With
Christmas Day falling on a Wednesday, I figured Glenn would give me
until Thursday, at least.

If I had everything done by Thursday afternoon,
perhaps I could squeeze in a little Chanukah shopping.

Abby was going in to her office, although the day was
essentially useless, an excuse to hold a party where everybody got
loaded and an unusual number of the men made a quick pass at my
wife. The passes were quick because my wife is an expert at
deflecting them, and then not telling me, because I’d just get
upset. Women like to keep you from things that will get you upset,
unless they’re the ones upsetting you.

I started the day early, since I knew that by
afternoon, no one would be available, and I needed some people to
be available. First thing Tuesday morning, as soon as I thought it
was safe, I called Mary Fowler.

She was surprised to hear from me, but wasn’t, thank
goodness, asleep when I called. I asked if she expected Kevin home
for Christmas Eve, and she didn’t answer right away.

“Normally I would,” she said, “but I haven’t heard
from him. I don’t even know if he’s still in Indiana.”

That was the wedge I needed to ask the question I
wanted to ask without needlessly upsetting Mary. And there are
people who think I’m not sensitive to others’ feelings. The
swine.

“Well, if Kevin were in town, but not at home, where
would he be?” I asked.

“Probably at his friend Bill Mahovic’s house,” she
said without much thought. “Those two have been inseparable since
grade school.” Mary sounded surprised when I asked for Bill’s
address, but she looked it up and gave it to me.

“I might be over later with Ethan,” I told her. “How
late is too late?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Mary said. “We’ll be here all day.
It’s Christmas Eve, you know.”

“I heard,” I told her. “Thanks, Mary. I’ll probably
see you later.”

Ethan was sleeping in, as was his right during a
school vacation, so I left him alone and decided to put the Very
Famous Plan, the Sequel, into action. I called Mahoney on his cell
phone and asked where he was at that moment.

“Still at the house,” he said. “It’s seven-thirty.
I’m just about to hit the door.”