The Power of Bacon

by Kim Hunt Harris

“Is beautiful,” Viv insisted, stepping close. “Bitsy is beautiful, and we’re going to bring her home.” She whipped out a business card. “Vivian TK, Private Detective.”

  Mrs. Braswell gasped. “You? How?”

  Viv’s chin went up at the unmistakable incredulity in Mrs. Braswell’s tone. “Did you read the card? We’re private detectives. One hundred percent success rate. Certified through the National Association of Private Investigators. You need your dog back, and we want the job.”

  I looked at Viv with a raised eyebrow. National Association of Private Investigators? She must have gotten that off Amazon, too.

  I had to hand it to Viv, though. When she wanted to, she could be very convincing. By the time we careened out of the funeral home parking lot a few minutes later with Joyce Ewell’s address in hand, I kind of believed we were going to be bringing Bitsy right back.

  “Okay, I’ll pick you up around ten.”

  “Ten? Why not now?”

  “Salem, there’s no point in buying night vision goggles if you don’t use night vision goggles.”

  “But…ten?” Since I’d quit drinking, I was kind of a lightweight. In fact, sometimes I couldn’t wait to get to bed at night. It made for a shorter day to get through. “Let’s go over there now. Right now. Strike while the iron is hot.”

  “Because I want to use my new toy.”

  And I wanted to go to bed on time. But that was going to carry zero weight with Viv. Awesome as Viv was, she cared little for anyone else’s comfort and wasn’t big on practicality in general. I would have to take a different tack.

  “You know, that’s a pretty bad neighborhood where they’re holding Bitsy.”

  “Yeah? Well, I do carry, you know.”

  I knew. She’d shot the thing off near my ear a few weeks ago, and my ears had just stopped ringing last week.

  “Still, it would be good to go over and get it taken care of. Have the rest of the day free.”

  I looked over at her. She had her chin set stubbornly. Okay, a different different tack.

  “You know, if we get Bitsy back to Mrs. Braswell and get the check, you could order those boots this afternoon. With express shipping they could be on your feet by this time tomorrow.”

  “Hmmm…bingo night is tomorrow night. Starts at 6.”

  “You hate bingo,” I said, before I could stop myself. I clapped my hand over my mouth.

  “I do. But I have the hots for Ned Quillam, and he loves bingo. His wife passed away three months ago and I heard he came back to bingo last week. Time to move on.”

  “He’ll definitely be ready to move on once he gets a load of you in thigh-high boots. With that leopard print dress? Giiiiirrrrl…”

  “I know, right?” She slapped the steering wheel. “But when will I use my night vision goggles?”

  I thought for a second. “Okay, I’ll make you a deal. We go over now and get Bitsy, tomorrow night after dark we can go around Trailertopia and spy on people.”

  “Do you mean it? Really?”

  “Absolutely. For a minimum of an hour.”

  “Three hours.”

  “Ninety-minutes.”

  She frowned, but I thought I had her.

  I reeled her in. “We can sneak up to Frank’s window and beat on it. Scare the crap out of him.” This would be my revenge for making me a drought pariah.

  “Okay, we’ll go over now. What’s the address?”

  I read it off to her and we drove over, the air conditioner chugging full-force. Brown lawns lined the roads, but as we drew further east, the brown got browner. Most of the yards over here had been brown and unkempt even before the drought hit. Viv threaded the car down narrow streets lined with old cars and small tract houses in faded pastel colors with chain link fences. Joyce Ewell’s was yellow with dirty white shutters. Her yard didn’t even have grass, so she didn’t need to worry about her water bill.

  “Let me handle this,” Viv said again as she parked the car. “I have a plan.”

  She didn’t need to worry. The neighborhood made me a little nervous, and I had not forgotten that we were dealing with a frigging lunatic. I picked up Stump and carried her with me, even though she could have walked. If we had to make a quick getaway I didn’t want to have to count on her running to keep up.

  Viv rapped smartly on the door, there being no sign of a doorbell. A woman with dyed black hair and a tattoo of a monster on her shoulder answered the door. “Yeah?”

  “I am so sorry to bother you on such a hot day. I mean, this is ridiculous, this heat, right?” Viv smiled brightly and fanned herself. “We were just walking down the street and I thought, if I don’t get some water I think I’m going to have a heat stroke.”

  Joyce nodded to the curb. “That’s your car. Go get some water.”

  Viv gave a very fake embarrassed smile. “You saw us drive up.”

  “No, I just know a rich ol’ white lady car when I see one. Whadda ya want? I don’t want to come to yer church for weirdoes, if that’s what this is.”

  Viv laughed heartily. For someone nearing a heat stroke, she was very animated. “We are not here to invite you to church, although you would certainly be welcome any time. Wouldn’t she, Salem?”

  I nodded mutely and edged behind Viv. I would have preferred to remain anonymous. There was a time in my life when people like Joyce Ewell were my usual companions and the last thing I wanted was for her to recognize me from some bar or some fight. Or some bar fight.

  “The truth is, we need – why, what an adorable dog!”

  Bitsy has stepped up beside Joyce. She looked awful, her hair all matted and dirty, hanging in her eyes. But that was her alright.

  I felt my eyes bug out, and my heart beat faster. There she was. My water bill payment. I felt like I’d found the Lindberg baby.

  Viv squatted on the porch and reached out a hand. “Well, hi there, little fella. What’s your name?”

  Bitsy growled and snapped. Viv jerked back, nearly falling on her rich old white lady butt. She caught herself with one hand and tried to laugh.

  Joyce brushed Bitsy back with her foot. “You’re lettin’ all the cool air out,” she complained. “Whadda ya want?”

  “Why, we certainly don’t mean to bother you, of course.” Viv edged closer to the door, one hand low, and I realized she was actually going to try to reach in and grab Bitsy.

  Joyce realized it, too. “Get back.”

  Viv dropped all pretense of this being a neighborly visit, her lips clamped into a line. “That.” She pointed to Bitsy. “That is not your dog!” She lifted her chin in triumph.

  Joyce raised her eyebrows. “Yeah? So?”

  Viv blinked. “Well, you – well…”

  Joyce stepped back and swung the door.

  Viv stuck her leg in just before it slammed.

  I gasped, suddenly visualizing me carrying a broken-legged Viv out of here on my back like Forrest Gump carrying Bubba out of the jungles of Viet Nam.

  Viv shouted as Joyce shoved on the door. “Give me that dog!”

  “You crazy bitch!” Joyce shouted. “Get yer leg outta my house.”

  “I’m crazy? You’re the one who kidnapped a dog!”

  “I cleaned up that frigging dog’s piddle for three months! I deserve extra pay.” To her credit, Joyce didn’t seem willing to push very hard on the door. She kicked at Viv’s toe, trying to dislodge her.

  “Hang on,” I said, stepping up to the door. “You cleaned up after one dog for three months and you think you should get ten grand?” I cleaned up after dogs all day long. It kind of went with my job.

  “And the little shit bit me! I coulda sued for damages. But this seemed quicker.”

  “Oh. Well.” I really didn’t know how to argue with that logic.

  Joyce stepped back from the door, and Viv lost her balance, falling against me. It turned out, though, that Joyce had only let go long enough to reach for her gun. She returned within a second, her back against the door and the gun raised.
“Are ya gonna leave or do I put holes in yer purty pedicure?”

  This time Viv’s eyes bugged. I was already backing off the porch. “We’re going,” I said.

  “We can’t leave without the dog,” Viv said, frowning at me as I walked away.

  You might be surprised how loud the sound of a pistol cocking from the other side of a door is.

  Viv turned and hustled down the steps. “Fine,” she said. “Keep the nasty little thing.”

  I was in the car with my seatbelt on within seconds. “Oh, well,” I said as Viv got in. “We tried.”

  “Oh, we’re coming back,” VIv said. “She’s thrown down the gauntlet now. That dog will be MINE.”

  “Mrs. Braswell’s,” I said.

  “Whatever. That psycho is not going to scare me off.”

  “She just did.”

  “Yeah, well…” She chewed her bottom lip and careened the Caddy through traffic. “To tell the truth, that was part of my plan.”

  “Ummm, no.”

  “Okay, the gun wasn’t part of the plan. But I do have a Plan B.”

  “Is it better than Plan A? Standing in plain sight of the crazy woman, grabbing the dog from under her nose and running?”

  “Well, I thought it would work!”

  “There’s no Plan B, is there?”

  “No. But I’ll think of something before tonight.”

  I grabbed the door handle as she nearly took the mirror off a passing Dodge pickup. I’d grown somewhat accustomed to Viv’s driving – at least enough to keep from screaming in panic. Now I just hung on and prayed. The Caddy’s arctic blast air conditioner and my own precarious automobile situation made it worth the risk.

  “Do you think tonight might be too soon? She’s likely to be on her guard. We’ve lost the element of surprise.”

  “No, it’ll be fine. That’s why I said what I did when we left. Lull her into a false sense of security.”

  I nodded but didn’t say anything. The gun had shaken me, and I wasn’t convinced I was going back. I’d had enough near-death experiences to last me for a while. I wasn’t going to say as much to Viv at the moment, though. Joyce had shown her up, and Viv now had a vendetta. She wasn’t going to let this one go.

  The safest bet right now was to pretend to go along with the plan until I got home, call her and spit it out quickly. Then hang up, put the phone on mute, and refuse to answer the door for a few days. She could play Russian roulette with her own life.

  That was one of the bad things about being Viv’s friend. She was old and of the philosophy that if her number was up, well, that was that. She’d lived a full life. Me, I was barely getting started, and what little I had lived I’d mostly screwed up. I had a lot of amends to make and still held out hope that someday I would stop being so frigging broke and be able to keep my head above water.

  Plus, Stump was depending on me.

  Viv dropped me off at Flo’s, and Stump and I rode home--both panting from the heat--in the piece of crap car I’d just bought from the tote-the-note place down the street from Trailertopia, where I lived. I nodded politely as I drove by my neighbor and pulled up to the concrete pad outside my trailer.

  “I don’t know how you manage to keep your grass so green,” my neighbor called out as she walked by. Her eyes narrowed.

  I smiled and nodded, then hurried inside and promptly slid to the floor. The linoleum was slightly cooler than the air. Stump sniffed around, snorted in my hair, then trotted off to see if there was food in her bowl.

  I asked Frank to come over and babysit Stump while I went out. Stump had issues with separation anxiety. Basically, if I leave her alone she’s going to scream loud enough for the neighbors to call the cops, plus she’s going to tear up everything she can reach. By now the cops are used to getting frantic calls that someone is being tortured at my house, and I don’t have anything left to tear up. But after Stump’s ordeal of a few weeks ago I didn’t want to let her get worked up. Plus, Frank likes to babysit. He sits in my old leather recliner and watches TV and falls asleep. Which is what I always do when I sit in the big leather recliner.

  Viv came to get me about ten, wearing black from head to toe: long-sleeve black turtleneck, black pants.

  “You know it’s like 85 degrees out there still,” I said.

  “Gotta be incognito for Plan B,” she announced. “You too. Put on something black.”

  I looked down at the shorts and t-shirt I was wearing. My outfit was cooler, but my legs were so pale they practically glowed in the dark. So I did as I was told. I still had my doubts about the existence of a Plan B, but if bullets did happen to fly, I didn’t want to make an easy target.

  I left Frank and Stump snoring in the recliner and snuck out the door.

  Viv tapped the steering wheel restlessly as she drove. “You don’t think I have a plan, do you? I have a plan. I have a grade-A, guaranteed, solid-gold plan. Look at what I did,” she sing-songed. “Well, listen to what I did.”

  She dug around in her purse beside me, the car swerving in and out of our lane as she did so. I hung on. A few weeks of driving with Viv had hardened me to the possibility of a fender bender. As long as we weren’t headed into oncoming traffic, I figured I could survive the impact.

  She pulled a small recorder out of her purse. “Get a load of this.” She pushed a button. Nothing happened. “Damn it.” She pushed another button. Still nothing. She jabbed at buttons furiously. “Don’t tell me I erased it.”

  Some white noise came from the recorder, and she said, “Okay, there it is. Turn it up, will you?” She handed the recorder to me, and I found the volume button.

  At first there was nothing. Then I heard something that sounded like scratching. Then faster scratching. Then a whimpering.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “Remember Louise Vandercamp’s Pekingese, that keeps pooping by the swimming pool? I accidentally-” she took her hands off the wheel to make quote marks in the air – “locked him in the ladies’ room in the pool house this afternoon.”

  “And recorded it? Viv, that is mean.” The scratching and whimpering grew more frantic. This was soon followed by frightened, high pitched yips.

  “No, mean is looking up from my relaxing floating session to see a fresh steaming pile of dog poo. That is cruel and unusual.”

  The yips turned to cries of panic (in canine form) and desperate scratching. The poor thing was trying to dig its way out of the bathroom.

  “I looped it,” Viv said proudly. “That means it plays over and over.”

  “Tell me you eventually let the poor dog out.”

  “Eventually.”

  I stopped the recording. “Explain to me how this is going to get us to Bitsy.”

  “This is going to get Bitsy to us. See, here’s how it’s going to go down. I set the recorder on the back porch. It wakes Joyce up. She’s sleepy, disoriented. She thinks, Oh my gosh, I left Bitsy outside. She’s scared. I must go to her rescue now. She stumbles to the back door, stands there calling, “Bitsy, Bitsy sweetheart, where are you?” I n the meantime, Bitsy sneaks past her. We grab her in the dark, get back to the car, and drive away. Easy peasy.”

  “Easy peasy,” I echoed. I wondered if I could bail out now. “Except it’s not going to work.”

  “Of course it’ll work. It’s foolproof.”

  “How do you know Joyce is going to automatically assume it’s Bitsy that’s yelping on the porch?”

  “Because she’s going to be on high alert. This dog is her meal ticket. She’s going to protect it with everything she’s got. When she hears a dog in distress, the first thing to go through her mind will be her ten grand.”

  “Why would she just not look down at her feet and see Bitsy standing right there?”

  “It’s dark. She’s been sound asleep. She’s disoriented. It won’t occur to her to look down.”

  It seemed to me the entire plan was predicated on nothing but wishful thinking. “And what makes you think Bitsy’s g
oing to come running to us? She wasn’t exactly leaping into your arms this afternoon.”

  “I have that covered,” she said. She leaned toward the floor at my feet, and the car swooped into the oncoming lane.

  “Whoa!” I grabbed the wheel. “You drive.” I fished around the floorboard and found a plastic bowl with a lid. I opened the lid.

  Immediately, the scent of bacon filled the car.

  “Yep,” Viv said proudly. “Bacon.”

  I looked at her in awe. The rest of her plan was full of flaws, but this move, I was confident, would save the day. I never underestimated the power of bacon.

  Viv reached into the pocket of her sweatshirt and pulled out a small battery-operated fan. She turned it on and held it up to the bacon. My mouth started to water.

  “She smells that, she comes running. We grab her and take off.”

  My confidence meter got a boost. I snapped the lid back on and wondered idly if she’d brought enough that I could have one little piece. I was a nervous eater.

  Viv passed Joyce’s street and then cut her lights as she eased into the alley behind the house. She parked one house in from the street, which left us about five houses from Joyce’s. Now that the time had come, I was nervous. Plus I kind of had to pee. Viv grabbed a hobo bag from the back seat and stuffed the recorder and the tub of bacon down and pulled the drawstring tight. It didn’t seem like a good time to tell her we needed to go find a service station or a McDonald’s.

  “Oh, I forgot,” she said. She tugged the bag back open and pulled out something floppy and black. “Put this on.”

  She handed one to me, then tugged the other over her head. It was a black toboggan. I didn’t really want to wear a black toboggan in the middle of a hot-as-fried-hell summer. I wondered how much bacon was in that tub, and if it would be okay if I snuck a piece, just to fortify myself. Instead, I pulled the toboggan on and stuffed my hair inside, and wished Bitsy had gotten herself dognapped in November. My scalp began to sweat immediately.

  “Ready?” Viv turned to me, her eyes wide with either excitement or anxiety – probably some of both – and her body tense as a tightly wound clock, a piece of silver hair sticking out of the black hat and plastered against her cheek. I managed not to laugh, but just barely. I probably looked at least as silly. I nodded solemnly.