This Dog for Hire (8 page)

“He may be there right now, for all I know,” Dennis said. “Yeah, he has the keys. God knows why. He almost never came here. He claims he's allergic to paint fumes. And dogs. Okay, so I'll see you at the opening?”

“You bet! Get to work, Dennis. You'll feel better.”

When I hung up, I needed to do something to clear my head, so I climbed on my exercise bike and began to pedal rapidly. I had gotten the habit of working out when I was a dog trainer, hauling around dogs that sometimes weighed as much as I did. It's not really brute force that gets the job done. A great deal of getting through to a dog has to do with winning its respect, which is often done mentally, but it doesn't hurt if you can impress the dog physically when necessary, stopping him or moving him, if not with your irresistible personality, then with a little muscle and some swell timing.

I had told Dennis if he did something he'd feel better. But I had, and I didn't. I couldn't stop thinking about the Christopher Street pier, how lonely it must have been that night, how dark. I wondered if there had been a moon.

I thought about the sound of the place, too, the wind, the car, the little bell on the dog's collar, the sound it would have made as he pulled and twisted, trying to break free, and the mournful yodeling of that little dog, Magritte.

10

It Should Only Happen

Despite the fact that my mail assured me I had won seven million dollars and therefore no longer had to work for a living, Dash and I headed for the waterfront to try to find the homeless man known as Billy Pittsburgh. After all, back before I became filthy rich, I had given Dennis the hope there might be a witness, hadn't I?

When the last thing you want to see is a homeless person, like finally you met a guy who's appealing, interesting, single, straight, and uninfected—it should only happen—and you're wearing your black knit coatdress with the deep V neck and matching cigarette pants, your mother's sparkling marcasite pin, sheer black stockings, and witchy black suede, ankle-high boots with a small heel, and your hair for once came out perfect, and you're even wearing makeup, for God's sake,
then
you'll see homeless people. You'll trip over them. They'll hold their filthy hands out, nearly touching you, and ask for money. Or you'll pass one, asleep in a doorway, and for a long time afterward, you'll continue to smell the rancid odor of urine, wafting into your nostrils from your own clothes, which absorbed the stink as you passed it.

I knew it would take great luck to find Billy. It's not as if he had an address or a phone number. And even if I found him, it was doubtful he saw anything or could remember or relate what he saw if he had seen anything. Still, this, according to my mentor, Frank Petrie, was how you did investigative work. And since I didn't have a better idea at the moment, I figured I'd give it a shot.

Frank required a daily progress report that he could forward to the client so that, even when there was no progress, most days, you could outline where you went looking for it. According to Frank, the third law of investigation work is Look, kid, no one's paying you to sit on your ass and watch TV.

Dashiell liked the waterfront, and in nicer weather I did too. It was comforting to be near the river and expansive to let the eye rove far instead of being stopped every few feet by a building. There's more sky in the Village than there is uptown, because the buildings are lower here, more on a human scale than the skyscrapers in much of the rest of Manhattan, and at the waterfront you can see
really
far, to the Statue of Liberty if you looked to the southwest, to the twin towers of the World Trade Center south and slightly to the east. If you looked northeast, you'd see the Empire State Building, which to me is still the tallest building in the world. I'm always reluctant to edit the truths of my childhood.

I could see everything, including my breath, but I couldn't see Billy Pittsburgh.

We crossed West Street, walked a block to Washington, and headed uptown. A lot of homeless hang out in the meat district, a few blocks north from where we were. It was a long shot, but maybe someone would have seen Billy and might know where I could find him.

When we got as far as Gansevoort Street, we found a tattered woman slowly pushing her shopping cart full of possessions along the sidewalk. Poking out from inside her torn coat was the broad, striped face of a red tabby cat, and there were two small mixed-breed dogs, each wearing several sweaters, riding in the cart among her treasures. The homeless men usually collect deposit bottles. Many have become rather entrepreneurial, amassing large amounts of cans and bottles they can exchange for enough money for a meal. The street women seem far crazier than the men. Few talk to anyone. Many rave as they go. They seem more impaired than simply hideously down on their luck. At least, with this lady, her pets gave me a possible opening.

“Handsome cat,” I said, the jowls telling me the cat was male, “what do you call him?”

She stopped, looked at Dashiell, then, to my surprise, looked at me. Perhaps Dash's presence signaled I was trustworthy.

“Tuna,” she said. “Just use your nose, girlie. A nose, by any other name, would smell a rat. Something's fishy in Denmark.”

“I see,” I said. “I mean, I sniff, therefore I am.”

She tossed back her head and cackled.

“Sure would like some coffee,” she said, lifting her head and air scenting, as if I might have some in my pocket.

“I'll get you a cup, um, what did you say your name was?”

“I smell, therefore I call myself Bo Peep.”

“Wait here. I'll be a minute, okay?”

“No skin off my cat,” she said, getting busy adjusting the parcels in her cart. The dogs sat perfectly still, staring down at Dashiell.

We were across the street from Florent, the wonderful little French bistro smack in the middle of the meat district on Gansevoort Street. I ordered a coffee to go, and while I waited, I figured out the name. It wasn't Bo Peep. It was B. O. Peep! Accurate, too.

When I got outside, B. O. was down the block. Dashiell and I ran to catch up with her. I handed her the bag with the coffee.

“B. O., do you know a homeless man called Billy Pittsburgh? He hangs around West Street sometimes.”

She opened the bag, sniffing like a dog. “Coffee,” she said, “I smell coffee.” She closed her eyes and inhaled.

“Have you seen Billy around lately?” I asked.

“Billy
Pee
,” she said. “Smells worse than Shithead here,” she whispered. The little brown Chihuahua mix looked up at the sound of his name. “He eats it,” she said, her hand next to her mouth in a dramatic aside, dirty fingers poking out of her torn, gray woolen gloves.

“Has he been around? Billy?”

“He calls me Mary Perry,” she said slowly to no one in particular. “Mary Perry. It rhymes. Mary Perry. Not my name, I tell him. My address.”

She put the bag under Tuna's face, for him to smell the coffee. His eyes became slits and his lips retracted.

“Slow Black Billy,” she said, laughing. “That's what I call
him
. He don't move too good.”

She carefully took out the container of coffee and opened it, smelling it again for a long time.

“Do you know where I could find him?” I asked her one more time.

She began to push the heavy cart with one hand, and I could see the coffee sloshing out of the cup as she moved on. After going a few feet, she turned around.

“Haven't spotted him lately,” she said. “But someone else sure did. Don't know who. Don't want to know.” She was shaking her head as she began to make her way slowly down the block, still muttering. “Always making fun, that Billy. Always making jokes on
me
.” She stopped, and it looked as if she were pointing to her chest. Slowly, the cart began to move forward again. “Now the joke's
on him
,” she said, but then the wind came up and I could no longer hear her.

Dashiell and I walked uptown for a few blocks before heading back downtown, but I didn't see Billy or any other homeless people. It was dark by then, and the transvestite hookers were out, dotting the corners of Washington Street in the meat district like colorful birds, dancing in place, preening hopefully each time a car passed, singing to attract a mate, or at least the chance to earn a quick twenty.

When we finally arrived at home, the cottage seemed unusually warm, safe, and clean. I fed Dashiell, took a bath, and poured a glass of wine; then, remembering that the short version of the third law of private investigation says, At least
look
busy, I went upstairs to the office to play the other side of the tape I'd taken from Cliff's answering machine. As I waited for it to rewind, I hoped his messages wouldn't be as dull or annoying as most of mine. I hit play, then scrunched up against the pillows on the office daybed to drink the wine and listen.

“Baby, it's Imelda Marcos. I was wondering if you had time to go to Shoe Town today. I need pumps. Oooo. Call me, honey.”

Beep.

“Clifford, it's Gil. I was wondering if I could enter Magritte in the Westchester County Kennel Club show in September. I just got the judging list, and I think our boy would do
very
well. Call me. The entry deadline is in two weeks. And, oh, thanks for the check.”

Beep.

“Baby, it's Amy Fisher. I was wondering if you could recommend a good auto body mechanic. I need to get my dents pounded out. Oooo. Call me, honey.”

“Oh, dear. CLIFFORD, IT'S MOTHER.”

Beep.

“Osso buco tonight, you delicious thing. See you at seven, honey.” It was the same voice as the Imelda Marcos and Amy Fisher calls. Louis?

Beep.

“Cliff, it's Dennis. Are you there? Cliff, pick up, damn it. Oh, shit.”

Beep.

“Cliff, it's Mike. I can't take Magritte today. Sorry. Give me a call.”

Beep.

“This is for Robert Sutherland. I'm at the Marriott, Bob. I'll be here through Monday. Oh, it's Stanley Salkin of Power Crest. Give me a call.”

Beep.

These were among my favorites, wrong-number messages.

I've always wondered if I were morally obliged to call the people and tell them they didn't get who they thought they got. But I never did. I figure living with the consequences of your mistakes is part of being a grown-up.

“This is Margaret at Dr. Sobel's office. You have an appointment tomorrow at two. See you then. Have a good day, and don't forget to floss.”

Beep.

“Cliff, it's Mike again. Are you there? Shit. Either you're fucking your brains out, or someone died. Jesus—I hope you're fucking your brains out. Okay—I can get him at four. Unless I hear from you.”

Beep

When I woke up, I was still holding the tape recorder, but the tape had run all the way to the end.

I had dreamed I found Billy Pittsburgh and that he told me he had written down the license number of the car that had hit Clifford Cole, it should only happen.

But now that I was awake, I couldn't remember what it was.

11

Last Seen Flying West

The Friday
Times
had a large ad for the Cahill Gallery opening of Clifford Cole's work, white letters on a black field. Very dignified.

“A visual chronicle of the alienation of the nineties.” Where do they
get
this bullshit?

I turned to the obits. Since I didn't find my name listed, I figured I better get my ass to work. I climbed onto the exercise bike, called Dash, and told him to find a ball. When he did, I tossed it out the door of the office, where it bounced off the wall and went noisily down the uncarpeted stairs to the living room, Dashiell in hot pursuit. Even after ten throws, there he was, eyes ablaze, ready to do it all over again.

I have days like that. Sisyphus minus the rock, but getting nowhere all the same. I was afraid today would be one of them. Nevertheless, by ten to eight, we were ready to begin another search for Billy Pittsburgh.

There was more of a chance he'd be in situ, asleep, if we hit the streets early, but then I might be waking up a lot of homeless men trying to find him. We headed for West Street, across from the waterfront, checking doorways and loading ramps, heat vents, alleys, any place where a person without a home might find some protection from the weather, which at this time of year was fierce.

It occurred to me that the only thing I knew about Billy was that he was black, but even if I had decided to let the Asian and Caucasian homeless men stay asleep, you couldn't tell who or what was under any particular pile of rags or which packing box was trash and which was someone's cardboard condo.

With the exception of an auto body shop, nothing was open yet on West Street. And I couldn't figure out where Billy might be, because the street got the full brunt of the wind off the Hudson. We turned up Christopher and found one crusty guy with a blanket draped around him holding out a paper cup from one of the ubiquitous Greek coffee shops, hoping for a handout. He was Caucasian, under a lot of crud. I dug into my pocket and pulled out a handful of change. Dropping it into the cup, I asked him if he knew Billy Pittsburgh.

“Not here,” he said, shoving the cup in my direction, as if to ask for more.

“He doesn't hang out here?” I asked.

“No more,” he said. He was shaking pretty badly.

I tucked a couple of singles into his cup.

“Do you know where he might be now?”

He shook his head. “Don't know much,” he said. “God bless,” and he walked away.

On the lamppost on the corner a handwritten sign with the word MISSING on it caught my eye. Underneath it said, “Blue and yellow macaw, last seen flying west on Christopher Street, answers (sometimes) to ‘Arnie.' REWARD.”

We started snaking around the streets between Washington and Greenwich, checking every doorway and pile of trash, but finding nothing. On Washington and Bank we saw two transvestites, probably left over from the night before. I could hear their deep voices as they walked by us. The taller of the two had done something wonderful with her scarf. I'd have to try that sometime. At least the morning wouldn't be a total loss.