Junkyard Dog (7 page)

I wait till Dad goes out, and then I phone Vince. “Look,” I say, “I need to concentrate on my schoolwork. Since I started working, I haven't been pulling in the grades my folks expect.” It's a lie, but saying the word “folks” makes me feel, if only for a moment, that I have a better life.

“I'm sorry to hear that, kid…I mean Justin. You're a good worker. Floyd'll be sorry too. You sure there's nothing we can do to get you to stay? Reduce your hours? Pay you a little more?”

I take a deep breath. Unless I find another job, there'll be no more steaks for Dad and me, and no more leftovers for Smokey. “I'm sure.”

I feel better already.

A little later, Dad comes back with the paper. He's muttering to himself when he walks in. “This paper is getting smaller all the time,” he says, “and it's not like they're charging any less for it. Soon there'll be no paper at all. What kind of world is that going to be, Justin? Tell me that!” Dad is shouting now. My eyes scan the floor around his feet. Thank goodness there is nothing for him to throw.

I know Dad expects an answer. “Not a very good world,” I say in my calmest voice. “D'you feel like a cup of tea, Dad?”

Dad settles down once he has his tea and is reading the newspaper. “It says here there's been a rash of car thefts at auto lots. Not just in Quebec, but Ontario too.”

“Let me see.” It's hard to read the paper over Dad's back. If he weren't so moody, I'd get closer. “It says the Ontario car lots were patrolled by guard dogs too.”

Dad stretches his arms out in front of him. “I wonder if there's some connection between the crimes. What do you think?”

“I wonder too.”

“You know, this gives me a bad feeling about the guard-dog business. I appreciate the money you're bringing in, but I was thinking…maybe it's time you quit. Concentrate on school instead.”

I nearly flop over onto Dad's chair.

“Look,” he says, “just because school didn't work out for me doesn't mean it won't work out for you. You've got a good head on your shoulders and”—here Dad hesitates—“you're good with people. Better than I am.”

“But we need the money.”

“I thought about that too. I've been looking into doing some tutoring. Just one student at a time. Even someone as difficult as me should be able to manage that.” Dad laughs.

It's the first time I've ever heard him admit he was difficult.

I wish I could tell Dad everything—about what it's like working with the dogs, my suspicions about Floyd and how Smokey is living down the hall. But I know he could turn on me at any moment. In the end, I work on my fractions while Dad dozes in his chair. Even when he is asleep, he makes grumbling sounds.

Amanda said she'd meet me if I took Smokey out for a walk at ten. Dad is asleep, and there is no sign of Mrs. MacAlear. Smokey's ears perk up when he sees his leash.

Amanda isn't there, so I figure we'll just walk up and down the street behind the apartment. We head past the tennis club. It's dark except for the streetlights.

I try to calculate how many years till I can get my own place and wonder if Smokey will still be alive then. I sure hope so.

That's when I feel a hand on my shoulder and hear a laugh that sounds like a bark.

“I didn't know you got yourself a dog.”

“I—I went back for him.” But Floyd knows that. “What are you doing here?”

Floyd rolls his eyes. “You haven't learned, have you? You keep asking questions.”

“I quit. You can't tell me what to do anymore.” When the words are out of my mouth, I can't quite believe I said them.

“I wanted to talk to you about that, Justin. I want you to keep working on the van.”

“I'm through,” I say.

But when I look into Floyd's eyes, I feel trapped—like I'll never be able to quit. Smokey growls and tugs on his leash. He wants to get away from Floyd too.

I take a deep breath. “I don't like how you treat dogs.”

That makes Floyd laugh. “I treat 'em fine. Besides, they're working dogs. Unless they get old and lame like this sad sack.” When Floyd extends the front of his leg, I try pulling Smokey away, but I'm too late. Smokey makes a whimpering noise when Floyd kicks him.

“You gotta keep working for me,” Floyd says.

“No, I don't.” And then I pull out my best card. The one I've been saving. “I could go to the cops. Tell them about the female dog you got from the SPCA . You used that dog to rob the car lot, didn't you?”

Now, I hope, Floyd will leave me and Smokey alone. But that's not how it goes. “I didn't adopt no dog. Nah, some guy named Ted Leduc adopted that bitch you're talking about. I believe he's your pop. Which means, Sonny Boy,” Floyd says, his dark eyes shining, “you'll keep working for me till I say otherwise.”

My ears feel hot. I'm not just angry with Floyd. I'm angry with all the people I never got angry with before—my mom for leaving me, my dad for messing up his life, even Pete at the convenience store for treating me like I was invisible. “I'm done working for you. I'll tell the cops what really happened. And I'll tell them how you treat your dogs.”

When Floyd raises his hand, I'm ready for the slap. I don't care if it hurts, if it burns my skin, if it leaves a mark that'll never go away. Because for once in my life, I stood up for myself. And for what's right.

Floyd aims for my cheek, but his hand never touches my skin. Smokey leaps up and hurls himself against Floyd, and Floyd collapses on the ground.

When Smokey bares his yellow teeth, Floyd shields his face with his hand. Smokey may be old, but he can still scare a crook. Floyd isn't going anywhere.

I hear footsteps and then Amanda's voice. “It's okay, Justin,” she calls out. “Everything's okay. The police are on their way.”

chapter sixteen

Smokey is waiting by the front door of the Iversons' house. In the end, they adopted him, and Mr. Iverson didn't move out.

Smokey's tail is wagging, his ears are pricked up and he is looking out at the street. He may be retired, but he still has guard-dog instincts. “How ya doin', Smokester?” I ask, scratching under his chin.

I smell garlic. “Is your dad coming too?” Mr. Iverson calls from the kitchen.

“Uh-huh,” I say. “But he's tutoring till five thirty. Thanks for inviting him tonight too.”

“Any friend of Smokey's is a friend of ours,” Mrs. Iverson says.

It turned out Dad was the one giving Smokey treats. Once Dad heard the whole story, he even tried talking the landlord into letting us keep Smokey. Mrs. MacAlear said she'd pitch in too. But the landlord wouldn't budge. Somehow, I think it's better this way. The Iversons have a big lawn, and Smokey has Isabelle and Isidor for company. Those little dogs treat him like he's royalty.

Mrs. Iverson hands Amanda and me plates and cutlery so we can set the table. “How's the guard-dog business going?” Mrs. Iverson asks.

“It's going good. Vince and I returned that shepherd I told you about to his family. The kids were so happy they started to cry.”

I didn't have to quit my job after all. The police arrested Floyd—he got a reduced sentence because he turned in the mastermind behind the theft ring. Then a guy named James Milne took over the company. Mr. Milne is an animal-rights activist, so he's doing everything he can to improve the way our dogs get treated. Mr. Milne kept Vince and me on.

Dad is a little uncomfortable when he first gets to the Iversons' place. He doesn't know where to sit, and he says “Nice to meet you” twice in a row to Mrs. Iverson. But he relaxes when Smokey comes into the living room and stretches out beside him.

“That's quite a son you've got there,” Mr. Iverson tells Dad. “Can you believe he broke up a national car-theft ring?”

Half of me likes the attention. The other half feels embarrassed.

Dad helps me out. “From what I understand, your daughter had something to do it with it too,” he tells Mr. Iverson.

The Iversons don't have wine or beer with the spaghetti. I wonder if Amanda told them Dad is trying to cut down on his drinking.

Dad wants to leave after we have the carrot cake Amanda baked for dessert. “If you want to hang out a little longer, we can meet up at the apartment later,” he tells me when he gets up from the table.

“How about we play a board game?” Mr. Iverson suggests after we've walked Dad to the door and we're back in the dining room.

“Sure.” I'm not used to playing board games.

This reminds me of Smokey and his tug toy. He had to learn how to play. Maybe I can learn too.

“I can't tell you how glad I am that German shepherd is back with his family,” Mrs. Iverson says as she brings out a pile of board games.

There's Careers and Monopoly and a card game named Uno.

Amanda watches my face. “You choose, Justin,” she says.

“Any one of them's fine by me,” I say, looking at the games. “If you show me how to play,” I add shyly.

The Iversons don't laugh or look at each other funny when I say that.

I hear Smokey sigh underneath the table. I move the tablecloth a little so I can get a better view. Smokey's lying there, with Isabelle and Isidor curled up next to him.

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to my best friend Viva Singer for reading the first draft of this manuscript and for hardly ever losing her patience with me when I phoned her at work to talk about dogs. Thanks also to Alanna Devine, acting executive director of the Montreal SPCA ; dog trainer Robert Des Ruisseaux; and to security expert Gérard Farmer, all of whom took time out of their busy schedules to answer my questions about the work they do. Hats off and a big hug for Melanie Jeffs—my kind and clever editor—and to the team at Orca Book Publishers who help me tell my stories. And thanks, as always, to Mike and Alicia, the two big loves of my life.

Monique Polak is the popular author of many books for juveniles and teens, including
Finding Elmo
and
121 Express
in the Orca Currents series. Monique lives in Montreal, Quebec.