Good Girl

by Alan Lee

  “You and your honor, migo. Gonna get all three of us killed.”

  “Abandon your body but never your honor.”

  “Who you quoting?”

  “Someone stupendous, no doubt.”

  “If you die, I call dibs on Ronnie."

  She smiled. “Deal.”

  I said, “If I die, throw her into the coffin with me. She won’t mind.”

  “Mackenzie.”

  “Yes Ronnie.”

  “I’m tired of sleeping at my place. And I’m drowsy. May I sleep here tonight?”

  “Mi casa es su casa,” I said.

  “I can translate, you need me to,” said Manny.

  She stood and stretched. Worth the price of admission. “I’m going to bed. You can wake me up later, if you like, for purposes of recreation.”

  “Deal,” said Manny.

  “Not you. Wait until I die,” I said.

  At three in the morning, a gorgeous and needy girl prodded me until I sat up, blinking and stupid.

  Georgina Princess’s paws rested on my bed and she whined softly at a decibel near the upper limit of my range. She’d been poking my arm with her cold nose.

  I rubbed my eyes and whispered. “Yes?”

  I am lonely.

  “Do you need to go out? Nature calls?”

  No I am lonely and I do not know this place well and it does not smell like me and there are no other dogs.

  I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake sleeping beauty. Shoved shoes into slippers—they were red and black checkered, very manly, which made it okay—and walked Georgina Princess down the stairs to the back door. I opened it. She sat down and looked at me, wondering why I would be so stupid.

  “You don’t want to go out?”

  No please I want affection.

  “This has been a hard day on you, I bet.”

  Yes, oh yes, very hard.

  I walked back upstairs and sat on the rug in my bedroom near the heating vent. She walked in a circle, once, twice, and laid on the rug. She lowered herself in such a way that she leaned against my leg.

  I placed my hand on her abdomen and rubbed, and then her shoulder and rubbed, and then her back and rubbed.

  Yes, oh thank you, I feel better already.

  She fell asleep soon but I stayed by her side another hour.

  Mackenzie August, super softy.

  16

  The following morning, I inspected the house for dog hair. Even I, trained detective, found none. Maybe boxers shed less than other dogs, and shed short hairs at that?

  Georgina Princess Steinbeck and I drove Kix to Roxanne’s. Kix thought a dog being in the car was even more entertaining than Chuggington. I worried he might hyperventilate.

  Afterwards, I stopped at Kroger for dog food and then she and I went to the office. She smelled everything and expressed approval at my masculine potpourri. She ate then and laid near the creaking water radiator and emanated contentment and I enjoyed it all. A well behaved dog was a delightful companion, turns out. Who knew.

  I gazed at her, channeling all my years of experience and intuition. I thought and I deduced and I unraveled and I stewed. Reveal your secrets, animal. What part do you play in this mess? Impart unto me thine answers.

  Nothing happened.

  I would take her to Ulysses soon. Slight chance seeing the animal would knock loose some hidden memory. Maybe bring him peace. But I doubted it. More work needed to be done.

  The door downstairs banged open. Quick footfalls on the steps and then a girl in my doorway. Not a girl, more like a young woman. Nineteen? Twenty? She wore heeled leather boots and black leggings and an unzipped parka. Beneath the parka, a white shirt far too revealing. She was thin and shivering and her mousy brown hair was held back with gold clips. She brought with her a rush of chilly air.

  Georgina glared suspiciously.

  “You’re Mr. Mackenzie, right,” said the girl. Not really a question. She breathed heavily and her cheeks had pink spots. “Miss Veronica said I could run here. I need a place to sit.”

  “I am and you can.”

  She was already in. Glanced down the stairs. Went to the corner and stood. Made herself small.

  I noted, “That’s not sitting.”

  “Just a few minutes. Then I’ll go, I promise. You aren’t mad? Miss Veronica said I could.”

  “There’s no rush. Is someone terrifying about to charge up the stairs? A politician, perhaps?”

  No response. Still breathing heavily.

  The door downstairs banged a second time. Heavier footsteps. The girl’s face turned white.

  I stood.

  Georgina stood.

  A man paused in the doorway. Old boots, baggy jeans, baggy Steelers jacket, new Steelers ball cap. Slab cheeks, needed a shave. He glanced at me. Glanced at the dog. Acknowledged us with a jerk of his head. From his spot, he couldn’t see the girl cowering in the corner.

  “Yo, you seen a girl run this way? Looking for my sister.”

  “No girls.”

  He looked some more. Thought about coming in.

  Georgina growled.

  The man jerked his head again. “Aight,” he said.

  He moved down the hallway, glancing into other offices—two accountants and a travel agent. We heard his heavy boots on the stairs, trudging to the third floor. Nothing up there but locked doors. By the sound, he tried them. Forcefully. Came down the stairs again. Slowly walked the halls. Stopped in my doorway again. Thought more about coming in.

  Georgina growled again.

  And something in my face said I was more dangerous than the dog.

  I said, “What’s your name? I see a girl running around, I’ll tell her her brother’s looking.”

  He didn’t reply. Instead he said a very inappropriate word, went down the steps, and the door banged a third time. I walked across my office to verify his departure.

  I looked at the girl. She looked back. “All clear.”

  She nodded. Looked like someone who just won a battle but fought in a hopeless and pyrrhic war.

  “Sit. Any friend of Miss Veronica is a friend of mine,” I said.

  “Thanks, mister. I should go.”

  “Just a few minutes. I need you to pet my dog.”

  “Yeah, okay, I can do that. Sure.” She sat on the chair and held her hand out. She wore three rings and chipped red nail polish. Georgina Princess consented to be petted. With abandon. “I like your dog, mister. What’s it’s name?”

  “Georgina.”

  She smiled. “Good girl, Georgina. You got a rich person’s name, don’t you. Good girl.”

  “Who’s the guy?”

  “That guy? He’s so stupid. That’s Elton. Elton the felon.”

  “He’s supposed to be protecting you. He protects you and you two split the profits.”

  Her mouth pressed into a grim line. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, mister. Miss Veronica said you’re like a cop but not really. Said you don’t try to fuck nobody.”

  “Might get that etched into my door. Good slogan. Why’s Elton the felon mad at you?”

  “Supposed to be working but I’m not,” she said. She used both hands to scratch Georgina on the rump. “He wants money anyway. How’m I supposed to give him money if I’m not working? Stupid Elton.”

  “Who does Elton report to?”

  “I don’t know, mister. Nobody, maybe.”

  This was the problem Ronnie mentioned—no one looked after the girls. Parts of our society remained in the Dark Ages. The cold little human sitting on my chair, that was Ronnie’s passion; a girl with a broken childhood, a girl trying to make ends meet the only way she knew how, and getting beaten up for it.

  I read once that Jesus said, ‘The poor you will always have with you.’ I bet he would’ve said the same thing about prostitutes. Couldn’t solve that problem. Ronnie knew that. But she wanted to protect them as best she could.

  I slid my card across the desk, along with a twenty. “Go eat.
Go sleep. Call Miss Veronica or me if Elton hurts you.”

  She glared glumly at the money. “Why’re you giving me that?”

  “I’m sweet on Miss Veronica. And she likes you.”

  “You two screwing?”

  “Exclusively.”

  “Shit, I didn’t know that.” She stood and took the money and the card. “You’re really big, mister. But Elton is mean.”

  “I can be meaner,” I said. “If Miss Veronica asks me to.”

  I had two months of office work glaring hatefully on my desk. So I spent the rest of the day sending invoices, paying bills dated in November, making phone calls, answering emails. And, because it was torture, drinking Johnnie Blue.

  Georgina did not think my lifestyle compelling.

  We went home at three. The sun was out, heating the earth to a balmy fifty degrees, so I put a leash on Georgina and decided to walk to Roxanne’s. Waste not, want not, and that included vitamin D.

  We lived on a corner lot and hidden just behind a row of boxwoods was a gigantic army personnel carrier, parked half on the street and half on my lawn. It was yellow and capable of carrying at least sixteen…

  Ah, it was Gordon Gibbs in his H2. The vacuous husband of Colleen, ex-wife of Ulysses.

  He saw me. I saw him. He saw me seeing him. He glowered. It was titillating.

  He got out and slammed the Hummer door. Rolled his shoulders forward and puffed up to make himself bigger, like a puffer fish. He didn’t need to puff up—the guy was humongous. Dressed head to toe in Nike, including a headband.

  A headband! Wow.

  “That’s my dog,” said Gordon Gibbs.

  Georgina watched him curiously, wondering why a man his size and age wore short shorts.

  “This dog? Yours? The heck you say.”

  “I knew you’d find it.”

  “Her. Who on earth would ever call a dog it?”

  “Whatever, Mack. I knew you’d steal it and I knew if I came by a couple times I’d see you walking it.”

  “Her.”

  He rolled his eyes. “The dog belongs to me.”

  “Tell me her name and she’s yours.”

  “What?”

  “Not repeating it. Do your best,” I said.

  “I don’t know it’s name. Who cares?”

  “She does, you heartless monster with tiny calves.”

  His eyebrows inched upwards. “Tiny? I got more muscles in my calves than—”

  “Look at them. So little.”

  “Calves are mostly genetic, asshole.”

  “Bad genes then? That’s a shame,” I said. “Surprised you don’t fall over more.”

  “Give me the dog.”

  “Negative, chicken legs.”

  He pulled out his phone. “The dog’s legally mine. You think I won’t call the police? They’ll throw your ass in jail so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

  “Nope. None of that’s accurate. Nothing in those three sentences is true. Call the police. You do, I’ll give you ten bucks.”

  “I will.”

  I nodded encouragingly. “I got time.”

  He didn’t.

  His bluff was called.

  His momentum stalled.

  His complexion darkened.

  I almost felt bad for him.

  I said, “I’m curious. What would you do with the dog? Shake her until a million dollars fell out? Twist her like a Rubik’s cube and when the pieces align a hidden door will pop open?”

  “I don’t know but I’ll figure it out. If that asshole doctor wants it so bad, then the dog’s worth something. Give it here.”

  “No.”

  “Fine. I’ll take it from you,” he said.

  “With those legs? Hah.”

  “I can dead lift five hundred pounds, Mack. I do calf raises with—”

  “Gordon, shut uuuup. I don’t care. Your poor wife.”

  He stepped closer. He was bigger than me. Except for the calves. “I’ll take it.”

  “Her. Go ahead.”

  He reached for the leash and I slapped his hand. He grunted and shoved me, but I rotated enough so he mostly missed and he staggered off balance.

  “What are you doing, Gordon? Is this foreplay?”

  He snatched the leash halfway down and said, “Hah. Got it. You’re toast.”

  Georgina growled.

  I smacked him. Open handed, across the face. My hand is large and strong and I caught him good, not a passing swipe but enough to raise a welt. Enough to hurt my hand. If his head was a bell, the sound would be heard for blocks. He let go and stumbled backwards. It stung. It stung a lot. His eyes watered.

  “Are you worried the neighbors are watching and think you uncoordinated and clumsy? I would be,” I said.

  “You’re messing with the wrong guy, Mack.” Looked like he couldn’t see straight.

  “Thus far, evidence suggests you should be giving yourself this pep talk.”

  “I work out for a living. You think you’ll win this fight?” He didn’t want to be crying but he was. Sometimes you can’t help the tears. Hard to come back from that, as a tough guy.

  “I do. So does the hand print on your face.”

  “I don’t want to kick your ass in public.” He turned for the Hummer. Stumbled a little. “This isn’t over. You gotta deal with me, asshole.”

  “Come back with new invectives, chicken legs. I’m tired of that one.”

  His Hummer roared and trundled away, picking up speed like a school bus.

  Georgina and I considered one another.

  “What makes you so valuable?”

  I just am.

  17

  The next day.

  The world endured.

  I sat in my office. Georgina at the heating radiator.

  I surfed the internet for Ulysses Steinbeck and found the accident three years ago, written up in the Roanoke Times. He’d been coming down Bent Mountain, reached the bottom—thankfully; otherwise he’d be dead—and careened off the road. The car plummeted less than ten feet; had he gone off at the top, he would’ve plummeted hundreds. He was hospitalized in critical condition.

  I called the records office and requested the police report. I gave the woman the date and location of the accident and the driver’s name as Ulysses Steinbeck. She’d have it for me in an hour.

  Georgina and I left downtown and got on Highway 581, heading north. Following a hunch, we exited at Hershberger—lo and behold, the red light was burning at Krispy Kreme Donuts. Hot and fresh. We eased into the drive-thru, careful lest someone of consequence see our gluttony, and ordered a half dozen.

  “Don’t tell Ronnie,” I said and I let Georgina have one.

  Was I the best dog caretaker in the world? Or the worst?

  A fine line I walk.

  Roanoke County Police is in North Roanoke, off Cove Road. I let the dog remain in the car, windows cracked. She watched me go, alert and vigilant, ears tuned forward.

  The nice lady in the records office didn’t look at me or like me or do anything to warrant being called nice. She gave me the file and said, “You can’t photocopy it.”

  “Take a photo with my cell phone?”

  “No.”

  “Take it with me?”

  “No.”

  “Wanna go on a date?”

  “No.”

  “Fine, I’ll pay.”

  “No.”

  I had two copies of the police report—the original with hand-written notes and the typed version.

  May 12th. Officer Ingram arrived on site at 2:17am, southwest Roanoke County. Car went off Highway 221 approximately fifteen minutes prior. Woman had called for an ambulance and the ambulance arrived five minutes after Officer Ingram. Call originated from cell phone registered to Ulysses. Ulysses Steinbeck’s name and address were listed, taken from his license. He drove an Audi—there was a dark photo of the car perpendicular with the ground, crunched, propped up by two trees, all windows broken. Audi totaled. I saw his insuran
ce information and the car’s registration. One witness—Verna Hardy drove by the wreck and she also called 911 before police arrived. Verna provided nothing of consequence. Ingram noted the night was warm, upper 70s, sky clear, almost a full moon. A picture taken from Google Earth approximated the location of accident, and the officer drew an arrow indicating the direction the car had been traveling. Heading towards Roanoke, away from Floyd, like Ulysses was coming home. Ulysses badly hurt, unresponsive. Officer Ingram indicated he smelled alcohol.

  Ingram was good, his report more thorough than most.

  A note added later—blood work showed his BAC at 0.26. Jiminy Christmas, Ulysses. Takes hard work to get that drunk.

  Ingram saved the best for last. At the bottom of his report—two women were traveling in the car with Ulysses. Neither had identification. Names were Regina George and Lacey Chabert. The two women wanted to follow the ambulance to Carilion Hospital, so they rode with Ingram. He listed their injuries as minor.

  Ah hah. A clue! Turns out I could recognize one when I saw it. I’d begun to despair.

  Ulysses had been traveling with two women, neither with ID. And I knew those names. Somehow. Somewhere.

  I was stimulated.

  If Georgina Princess Steinbeck had been in the car, Ingram would’ve written that down. I didn’t expect she had been, but that would’ve been another clue.

  I returned the police report and said, “Fascinating.”

  “Mmhm.”

  "Want a donut?”

  The nice lady looked up from her computer. Not at me, but in my direction. “Krispy Kreme? Got extra?”

  “I do if you let me make a photocopy.”

  She did not express amusement.

  18

  I wanted to call Carilion and ask about the two other women and their injuries, but HIPAA was a foe over which there could be no victory.

  Instead I found the number for Officer Ingram, now a sergeant with Roanoke’s K9 division.

  “How about that,” I told Georgina as I let her walk around the grass and do her business. “The K9 division. Your people.”

  Ingram agreed to meet me for lunch at Macado’s, downtown. Macado's was a local chain with a large menu, cooked everything well, and over-decorated their walls with posters from movies, life-sized curios, and pictures of famous events. Ingram arrived in plain clothes. A short man, black, neat mustache, shaved head, serious expression.