This Dog for Hire (19 page)

“Crystal's mom,” I said. With considerable pride.

He nodded. “She's not—?”

“In heat? No, April, I think.”

“No, I was wondering if she was
entered
?”

I hadn't given him a registered name, just a call name, and since he didn't know my name, he'd have slim chance of knowing if any of the bitches being shown in the Best in Breed competition were my precious angel. Unless he knew all the dogs, which, with only ten entries, was certainly possible.

“No,” I said, looking down at the vicinity of his cowboy boots. “She needs one more major.”

Gil nodded, looking vaguely bored and annoyed. He needed me hanging around like he needed Lyme disease.

“So, do you think Magritte is up for this today? Does he have that I-want-to-win attitude he's so famous for?”

“Always,” Gil said. “Dog's never had a bad day in his life.”

“I guess he had one or two,” I said.

Gil smoothed back his hair and, holding on to his ponytail, pushed up the band that held it. He tightened his string tie, too. “I guess you're right. I guess he has had a couple of bad days at that. But today he's going to have a good day. An excellent day. You know,” he added, “when you show your little girl next time out, don't be thinking about her bad days. Makes for bad karma. You people, you're all alike. Think you can do the job of a professional. Always looking to save a little money. And what does it get you? The dog picks up all your negativity and you find yourself with a self-fulfilling prophecy on your hands.”

He leaned toward me, his back to Magritte's crate and one boot up on the bench.

“That might be Crystal's whole problem. What I'm saying is,
you
might be her whole problem.”

“You mean—”

“Little lady,” he said, standing straight now to show me his full magnificence, “I can
guarantee
you that major Crystal is missing. No problem. We even can get that out of the way, if you like, before she comes into season so that you'll be breeding not just a dog but a champion. Think about your advertising. Champion sire and dam. Sounds pretty good, doesn't it? You've got to learn to think ahead, think about marketing.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “You get some of these serious show folk won't touch a pup unless both parents have proven themselves in the ring. Now you know that's the good Lord's honest truth, don't you?”

“Well, I don't know, it's awfully expensive to have a dog campaigned, isn't it?”

“If you're interested, I feel sure, as reasonable people, that we could work something out. After all, you're talking short term here. Unless of course she turns out to be so good you want to special her. Then we're talking a whole 'nother story.”

“Could you do it, like, if I met you at the shows? Or would you have to actually
take
her?”

“In order to give you that guarantee, I'd take her south, young lady. Where the winning is easy. A month. Two months at the outside.”

“Well, how much would that be? I mean, exactly.”

He leaned close enough now that I could smell the coffee he had had earlier that morning and the spicy smell of the pomade he used to slick back his thinning hair. “Twelve a month. Plus expenses, of course. Much less than you thought, am I right?”

I nodded.

“I can bring in that championship for under five for you. Do you believe that?”

“Why wouldn't I?” I said. Too harsh, Kaminsky, I warned myself. “I mean, that's incredible! Truly.”

I walked around him, bent to look into Magritte's crate, and saw his lovely, almond-shaped brown eyes looking back at me. His paws were crossed, left over right, and he was calmly surveying the scene. When I straightened up, I picked up a picture of him taking the breed in Monmouth County. Gil, in cowboy boots and a light blue jacket, was holding the leash taut and looking proudly down at Magritte, who stood, as in all these pictures, perpendicular to the photographer, showing off his level topline, his lovely wedge head, his wonderful double-curled tail, and his burnished copper coat, which shone like silk in the sunshine. I put the photo back carefully among the others and picked up one of Gil's cards.

“I sure would love to see a picture of Crystal like that. Taking the group. And I sure would love to see her
here
next year.” Now I stood on my toes and whispered into his ear. “That's my
dream
. Westminster.”

It's not hard to intone
Westminster
as if you were in church. For die-hard dog people, it
was
church.

“You really gave me something to think about,” I said, feeling smug. I had successfully established my presence in his face for the day. Magritte was safe.

Or so I thought.

“Look, if you want to go for coffee or something, I'll stay with Magritte. There's nothing else I want to do today but think over your, uh, offer, and watch Magritte take the breed.” I held up both hands with my fingers crossed.

Gil brightened up. “Are you sure you wouldn't mind?” he asked. “Well, if you're planning on sticking around anyway—”

“Absolutely. There's nothing I'd rather do than be near Magritte.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, “if you're sure. I could use a coffee and a run by the rings.”

Good, I thought, time to snoop.

“Take your time,” I told him, and he took off without saying another word.

I peeked inside the crate. Magritte was asleep. I suddenly realized how vulnerable he was, left by his duly authorized agent with a complete stranger who could easily lift him out of his crate, carry him to the escalator, ride down, and leave the Garden without anyone noticing or saying a word.

Who the fuck was I that he could leave the dog in his charge in my care!

Dogs were stolen all the time, not all of them from backyards, cars, or where they had been left for just a half a moment while the owner ducked into a store to buy a Boston lettuce.

But in fact I hadn't taken the time to ingratiate myself with Magritte's handler in order to steal Magritte, not that that made this Morgan Gilmore's lucky day. Quite the contrary. I had weaseled my way here to protect Magritte, and while I was at it, see if I could find something that would make the evidence against his handler more concrete than speculative.

I looked behind Magritte's crate to see if there was a camel coat neatly folded and tucked back there, and noticed, right at the side of the crate, in plain sight, that Gil had left, in a small heap, a pile of change, his liver pouch, his calendar, and his card case.

I opened the calendar first to January 19, the day Magritte had been stolen. There was no notation. Nor was there any under the 20th, the day Clifford was killed.

Well, how unusual. It didn't say, “Tuesday, January 19. Call Clifford Cole and find out when he'll be out without his dog. Kidnap Magritte.”

Nor did it say, “Wednesday, January 20. Murder Clifford Cole.”

I put the calendar back where I had found it and picked up the card case, flipped it open, and found not only Gil's business cards but his credit cards as well. It was a wonder to me that someone so dishonest could trust in the honesty of so many strangers and leave his valuables lying around where anyone could take them. Or did he have the poor judgment to trust that I would protect his valuables for him?

There was only a raincoat behind the crate. Bummer. Not even a beret or a white scarf tucked into the sleeve. I reached into his coat pockets and, underneath a handkerchief and an extra show lead, found his key ring. After a quick peek around during which I discovered that no one was paying the least bit of attention to me and that Gil had not returned to find me with my hand in his pocket, I pulled out my own keys and checked the loft keys Dennis had given me against Gil's ring.

I slipped the keys back into the bottom of Gil's pocket and put the raincoat back behind Magritte's crate.

There would have had to have been times when Gil had to pick up or drop off Magritte when Cliff couldn't have been there. So Cliff did the only practical thing he could.

He made Gil his own set.

23

You'd Have to Wonder

“Here's our boy!” I heard, close enough to startle me and loud enough for several aisles of people to hear.

I turned to see Veronica Cahill, stunning in a double-breasted black pantsuit with gold buttons, bending from the waist to look Magritte in the eye.

“You better win, you little
vantz
” she told him. “You're costing me a fortune.”

I got a wad of pretty good-looking tissues out just in time to catch a sneeze. Magritte sneezed back, as if I were playing his favorite game.

Just behind Veronica, Louis Lane was standing and waiting, but clearly not waiting his turn to greet Magritte. He spotted me and opened his mouth, but I shook my head in time to close it for him.

Veronica straightened up, making me feel like a troll. She was even taller than Louis.

“He looks wonderful, darling,” she said, her hand on Louis's chest. “There's not another to equal him. I never get tired of looking at Magritte.” She winked at Louis, whose neck reddened.

Perhaps it was his allergy acting up.

“Come on, Veronica. Oughtn't we try to get ringside now so we don't miss anything?”

“No, no. I want to see the others, the ones he's up against, those scruffy little interlopers.” She turned down the aisle to check out the other basenjis, leaving Louis to follow or not.

Louis's mouth opened, then closed. Neither of us said a word.

He was wearing a white sweater with a charcoal-gray jacket over it, a long white silk scarf draped around his neck. I wondered exactly what kind of game he was playing with Veronica. I wondered if, at least on this occasion, he had stretched a point and considered the virtues of bisexuality. For business purposes.

“Naturally she'd be interested in what happens here with Magritte today. Considering”—he paused, but didn't take his eyes off mine—“her investment.”

I heard Magritte resettle in the crate and, without looking, poked my fingers in for him to sniff.

“It can only help Clifford's name. If Magritte wins. And”—he got his handkerchief out just in time to catch a triple sneeze—“you know what this would have meant to Clifford.”

“You don't have to explain anything to me, Louis,” I said. “I'm only the hired help.”

“Life is for the living, Rachel,” he said. Then he turned and made his way down the aisle to Veronica.

Lots of people were making their way up and back in the benching area, and whatever their reason for being at Westminster, they didn't want to miss the chance to see Magritte. Some thought a barkless dog would be perfect for apartment living. No complaints from the neighbors about noise. Others were just attracted to anyone or anything important enough to be written about in the papers.

Most of them just stopped by quickly, checked their catalog, poked their fingers at Magritte, then headed for the concessions or down the next aisle. Short-attention-span disease was rampantly on display. I was sneezing back and forth with Magritte to keep him amused when I became aware that yet another spectator had stopped in front of us. I looked up.

“Pardon, is this Magritte?” His voice sounded hoarse.

“Yes, it is,” I said.

It was the stocky man from Cliff's opening, now spiffed up in a navy suit, white shirt, and maroon tie. He bent to look into the crate.

I wondered if he was a reporter. I looked for a press ribbon, de rigueur at Westminster, but there was none. Nor was there a Nikon or a Hasselblad hanging from his shoulder. Not a reporter.

Maybe he was a dog trainer. He had a ruddy, used-up sort of face. Working outdoors, training dogs, can do that to you.

Especially if when you finally come indoors, you do a shit-load of drinking.

“Is he going to win?” he whispered in his raspy voice. “He really got some fabulous press, didn't he?” He hiked his tan leather backpack higher onto one shoulder.

“Maybe he'll get the sympathy vote.”

“Oh,” he said. “Maybe he will. Are you—?”

“A friend.”

“A friend of
his
?” he asked.

I merely smiled.

Most dog shows attract serious dog people, professionals who earn their living training or showing dogs and breeders who need to prove their stock and see what the competition is producing. This one, because of its location and the fabulous press it gets, even when none of the dogs competing have recently murdered owners, attracts a broader audience, families dragging their kids through the crowded aisles, hoping by looking and asking questions to select the perfect breed, the curious, the lonely. Rich or poor, the bored take in Westminster. They come to see Nanook, Rin Tin Tin, and Lassie, for a once-a-year lively alternative to the museum or the movies.

He bent and looked at Magritte again, putting his face close to the cage. His dark hair was so even in tone, I wondered if it was natural.

“He's so quiet,” he said. “Is he always this quiet?” He straightened up. “Funny, isn't it? It's so hard to tell them apart. I wonder how the judges know which is which.”

A detective listens, Bruce Petrie used to tell me. I thought this might be a good time to practice keeping my sarcastic mouth shut.

“Unless, of course, the color is different.”

I nodded.

I wondered if he had used that stuff on his hair you comb in and no one's supposed to notice that in three days your hair is suddenly the color of a desk.

“I'm enjoying the show,” he volunteered.

I nodded. I figured it might seem rude to ask. The whole idea is to fool people, isn't it? I mean, even if you're in your eighties and your hair is solid black, like enamel paint, or if, like Tony Bennett, you have a hairline considerably lower on your brow than it was when you were younger, no one's supposed to know it's not a result of Mother Nature's glorious and perfect design.