This Dog for Hire (13 page)

I started looking at the paper, just turning pages, barely seeing what was in front of me, until I got to the arts pages. Suddenly, I was on the qui vive.

There was Magritte, an incredible head shot, wrinkled forehead, manipulative dark eyes, to-die-for black gumdrop nose, head held on that slant dogs have perfected that can melt the hearts of statues. The title was short and to the point: W
ITNESS TO
M
URDER
.

“A witness has been found in the murder of New York artist Clifford Cole, 32, who was found dead on the Christopher Street pier early on January 20th of this year in what the police are regarding as a random bias crime. The artist's dog, a champion basenji, the barkless African breed, who was reported missing the day of the crime, was recovered through an identifying tattoo on his inner right thigh.”

It went on to say that it had been learned that the basenji dog, Ch. Ceci N'Est Pas un Chien, known to his friends as Magritte, had been a witness to the vehicular homicide of his master, whose opening last night at the Cahill Gallery in SoHo drew a record crowd. Veronica Cahill, who characterized Clifford's work as “William Wegman meets Diane Arbus,” remembered to mention to the press that she had extended the run of the show from the usual three weeks to five weeks. And then came the good part.

The article quoted a couple of ersatz experts, the first a “dog psychologist” named Rick Shelbert who talked about “memory and trauma.”

“If Magritte were in the presence of the killer,” Dr. Shelbert stated, “there's no doubt he would react with fear. Because of the trauma,” Dr. Shelbert had gone on to tell the
Times
, “Magritte would remember the scent of the killer forever.”

Mobil, unleaded? It was doubtful the killer got out of his car.

“Magritte should be taken back to the scene of the crime,” said Tracy Nevins, a local dog trainer.

Leave it to the
Times
to interview not one but
two
blowhards.

“With several visits to the area of the murder, he could be desensitized. Then nonfearful behavior could be shaped and reinforced with food treats, the most effective of which would be the freeze-dried liver tidbits with which handlers customarily bait the dogs in the show ring.”

As to whether or not Magritte could finger his master's killer, Nevins was quoted as saying, “Definitely.”

I read on.

“Magritte's new owner, Dennis Kenton, who writes and illustrates books for children, said the plucky little dog ‘seemed none the worse for wear.'”

Funny. That didn't sound a bit like the Dennis “Kenton” I knew.

“‘We are still planning on having Magritte compete at Westminster on Tuesday,' Kenton added. ‘Clifford would have wanted him to be there.' The show, the second-oldest continuous sporting event in the country, second only to the Kentucky Derby, takes place Monday and Tuesday at Madison Square Garden. A representative of the Westminster Kennel Club said there was enormous interest in the show, particularly now that it was a champions-only event.”

I decided not to call Dennis. What was there to say?

I felt a sneeze coming and put the paper down. A moment later, I heard a familiar
pop
. Then Dashiell showed up with a tissue hanging from his big mouth. I used the half he hadn't chewed on for the next sneeze. It made me wish one of my dog trainer friends were here to appreciate Dashiell's grand trick. But dog training is a loner's profession, and even when I was still part of it, I only got to see my trainer friends once a year, during Westminster and all the posh award dinners that preceded it.

When I first got into training, I got a kick out of crashing the Ken-L Ration dinner. It was an invitation-only black-tie event and considered the big ticket of the weekend. So it was a coup to be seen there. No matter how you got in.

It was at the Waldorf then, and for years this other dog trainer, Chip Pressman, and I used to meet there and sneak in together. Like basenjis, we wanted to be precisely where we weren't allowed.

The raison d'être for the dinner is to honor the top show dogs of the year and their owners and handlers, and, of course, get all sorts of nice publicity for the product. There's always a guest speaker, usually someone funny to warm up the audience before the long, repetitious award ceremony, and lots of opportunities for schmoozing up new contacts and work possibilities.

Gil would be at the dinner. Shouldn't I be too? It would be a good way to hear a little helpful gossip, and it might be fun to try my hand at crashing the dinner, because now you had to do more than just sign in. Now you had to present your invitation to the guardians at the door. Difficult, true, but this was New York, where everything is possible.

Some people think New York is only a great place to visit, but take it from me, it's also a great place to live and work. For example, if you ever get a craving for Glatt kosher take-out for a long, hungry stakeout or you're dying to see a Broadway show you can't afford and don't mind missing the first act, you'd really appreciate this town.

For the first yen, try Lou Siegal's Glatt Kosher Restaurant on West Thirty-eighth Street. They deliver, but for a stakeout you should pick up. Law number four says, Don't call undue attention to yourself.

You used to be able to get kosher Chinese at Bernstein on Essex on the Lower East Side or Moishe Peking in the thirties, and kosher Japanese, yet, at Shalom Japan in SoHo, except of course on Shabbos, but they're all gone now. Like it or not, things change.

Anyway, as to the play, simply walk in with the smokers after the intermission. The stories aren't that complicated, and they always save the best stuff for the second half.

You can also crash almost any large celebratory dinner, such as the Ken-L Ration award banquet, which I was now planning to crash, by waiting until it begins and entering as if you belong after the invitation collectors have closed up shop. You have to figure that with two to three hundred people there, someone didn't make it. So there will be an empty seat for you. But be sure you dress as if you've been invited, or you'll stick out like a Great Dane at a cat show.

If this method would make you so tense you'd feel as if you were digesting a piano, opt for the second one.

Don't go an hour late. Go an hour early. Begin the evening by crashing the press hour that precedes the cocktail hour. Simply walk in carrying an expensive camera—I use my Nikon—and be prepared with the name of a magazine or newspaper, particularly one that usually doesn't cover dog events. In that way, you're less likely to run into the reporter or photographer the magazine
actually
sent, and you won't be questioned, because who would want to offend, say, the
New Yorker
? You can even disarm them by complaining that you just heard about their event yesterday and would they
kindly
give you a little more notice in the future. Using this method, you don't miss the free drinks, and there's much more chance to circulate and eavesdrop.

I heard the familiar nasal twang the moment I entered the cocktail hour for the winners and the press.

“Kaminsky, you bitch, where have you been keeping yourself?”

I turned around to see Susan Samuelson, who writes about the fancy for
Dog World
magazine. The fancy refers not to people who fancy dogs, such as myself, but to people who show dogs, such as the people being honored at the Ken-L Ration dinner.

“On the coast,” I lied.

“Miss New York?” she asked, raising her plucked eyebrows. She was a sixtyish elf in velvet leggings, ballet slippers, and a tux jacket, her white hair in a pixie cut.

“For sure.”

“Back to stay?”

“Think so. I missed the humidity.”

“Yeah. So where can I reach you when I need a quote? Are you listed or un?”

I wrote my number on the back of her press notes. Susan used to call me all the time for quotes when I was working as a trainer, which helped my reputation and the accuracy of her articles, making for a very serendipitous symbiosis.

“Susan,
I
need a little info. A client of mine got an unbeatable offer, sort of a half-price deal, for breeding to a top show dog—for cash. From the
handler
.”

“Naughty, naughty. Who?”

“Confidential?”

“Always. Unless you tell me otherwise. Cough it up, kiddo.”

“Morgan Gilmore.”

“Uh—no surprise.”

“How come?”

“You don't read the secretary's pages anymore?” She scraped her pointers at me, just like in grade school. “Reprimanded by the AKC, once for disorderly conduct, twice that I know of for registration violations.”

“And he's still handling? He wasn't suspended? How the hell does he get away with it?”

“Grow up, my dear. They don't call him the Teflon handler for nothing. And anyway, if we tossed out the people who cheat, there might not be enough people left to run a dog show, and I'd be out of a job. We'll talk?”

“Definitely.”

“Great. Hey, Kaminsk, where's your tan?”

“Sunblock. I used a shitload of sunblock.”

She nodded and turned away. A moment later, there was a hand on my shoulder.

“Where have you
been
, bitch?”

It was Mike Chapman, a dog trainer who wrote a newspaper column for the
Bergen Record
, a Jersey paper. I guess I should explain that, as a dog trainer, I never considered “bitch” a criticism, merely the proper nomenclature for the female of the species.

“The coast,” I said. “L.A.”

“Are you back for the show or back back?”

I always wondered how Mike did the work. He was about my height and as wide as a doorway, big belly hanging over his belt so that he could never button his jacket, hands and face red, and he wheezed when he spoke.

“Back back,” I told him. “I missed the snow.”

The waiter came by with skewers of chicken basted in ginger and soy sauce. We each took two.

“So, you're going to be training in Manhattan again? Or what? Were you working out on the coast?”

“Sort of. Got married and divorced since I saw you.”

“Heavy!” he said. “You okay?”

“I'm great.”

“Hey, I heard about Bemie. Sorry, kid. What are you working with these days, another Golden?”

My mouth was full of chicken. “Pit bull,” I said as soon as I could. “And I have a nice little basenji bitch, pointed, I want to breed.”

“Basenji? Rachel—”

“I know. I know. Anyway, I was thinking of breeding her to Magritte. I got this swell offer from Morgan Gilmore, his handler—”

“Morgan
Gilmore
! Shit!”

“What?”

“Six, eight months ago, that SOB tripped another handler in the ring, guy from the coast, maybe you know him, Ted Stickley?”

I shook my head.

“Fucker fell and broke his left arm, got up, punched Gilmore right in the snout with his right. Got a round of applause, too. Don't deal with Gilmore, Rachel. He's a snake.”

“I wouldn't have to send my bitch to him. He banks Magritte.” I took the last bite of chicken and waited.

“All the more reason to be careful. He could be sending you
anything
. His
own
sperm, for all you'd know.”

I made a face. “Thanks for warning me.”

I walked over to the bar, asked for a glass of white wine, and stood watching everyone talk while I sipped it. Being called Kaminsky had instantly drawn me back to the suffocating bosom of my hypercritical family. Beatrice had been dead for over five years, but the memories lingered on.

“Where are you going?” she used to ask me.

“Out.”

“Yes, but with your hair like that?”

Gotcha.

People were starting to head out, and when I looked at my watch, I saw it was time for the regular cocktail hour. The award winners and press moved to a larger ballroom, actually two rooms with several bars, tables full of raw vegetables, cheeses, and dips, and several hundred people who knew what and where a hock joint was.

Morgan Gilmore was a few feet from where I was standing, his neat ponytail resting on the satin collar of his tuxedo jacket, a glass of wine in one hand and a cigar in the other. He wore his string tie instead of a bow tie and cowboy boots. Black lizard. How fitting! He was as classy as a bowling trophy.

I intended to stick as close to Gilmore as gum on his shoe, but I was back in my old milieu, and every time I tried to eavesdrop, someone else had another story to tell me. When the dinner hour arrived, I trailed behind Gil, ever hopeful, and managed to sit at the table next to his. But once again the animated conversation close at hand precluded hearing anything from his table. So while I ate my steak dinner, I ended up listening to how many points everyone's dog had accumulated during the last year. Just when my eyes were about to roll permanently up into my head, the ceremony began. I angled my chair so that I could watch Gil watch the proceedings.

The fifth law of investigation work says, Don't jump to conclusions. I began to wonder if I had. Just because Morgan Gilmore was a thief and a distasteful, repugnant human being did not make him a murderer.

In fact, I was only dead sure that he was distasteful and repugnant. I didn't even know for sure that he
was
a thief.

Suppose Cliff had lied to Dennis. Dennis thought Cliff was close to broke. Was it part of Clifford's southern manners to hide yet another easy source of income from his hardworking friend?

How did I know that Gil wasn't giving the stud fees or some agreed-upon percentage of them to Cliff after all? What if he was just a tasteless slime, and not a thief at all, let alone a killer?

Suddenly all I could think about was Clifford Cole's cozy little den, where, among his other papers, he kept his bank records. A peek in there might let me know if Gil was sharing those hefty stud fees or not. I figured the stud fee for a good-quality champion basenji such as Magritte would be five hundred at the lowest, and up to maybe one thousand if Gil had a real sucker interested. I didn't know if I'd find anything that might possibly mean Gil was sending checks to Cliff, but whether or not he was became the loose thread of the moment.