“She’s a gorgeous-looking bitch, Mr. Skinner. One of the best I ever seen. What’s wrong? Can’t she work properly? Gosh, her coat is perfect and …”
“Not ready, she’s just not ready,” Philo blurted. Then he lit his last cigarette before going in the ring. Jesus, this kid! He had to have some kind of plausible story for her. He had overlooked the fact that he’d have someone with him today. It was all so strange, like a dream, this crime business. As though there’d be no one but himself and the schnauzer and the target!
“Pattie Mae,” Philo began thoughtfully, “sometimes you have to show fifteen dogs in a day. Sometimes overlapping occurs and you can’t be in two rings at the same time. You could actually have to miss showing in one of the rings, and that client, that rich client could be sitting up there in the goddamn seats crying in her hankie and threatening to sue, or something. So today, since this is my last… since this is your first dog show I’m not showing many dogs so I brought along that schnauzer bitch as a favor to … it’s time to go into the ring!”
“Yes, Mr. Skinner,” the girl said quietly, looking into Philo’s dilated eyes. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Always remember, Pattie Mae, you communicate with your fingers through the lead. You’ve got to have great fingers!” He said it as though he were going away and never coming back. “You’ve got to have great fingers!”
Philo almost panicked for a moment. He couldn’t find the huge yellow sign with the red ring number. It was right in front of his face. He almost tripped over a Kerry blue. There was a long file of Kerry blues, yet for a moment he couldn’t find the ring! He had to stop and commit a breach of etiquette. He had to smoke one last cigarette just seconds before going in.
A handler he’d never seen before turned and said loftily: “My bitch sneezes from cigarette smoke. Put it out, if you please!”
Philo Skinner had never had a fistfight in his entire life. Philo Skinner was so racked with asthma and incipient emphysema that even Pattie Mae could have beaten him up. Yet he suddenly shocked himself by stepping nose to nose with the other tall handler and saying, “Listen, buddy, if your bitch doesn’t like cigarette smoke, then switch to cigars and divorce the cunt!”
Then Philo bumped past the florid handler and was in the ring. Out of the way, you creep! You fag! The best go in the ring first. The greenhorns go in last. Out of the fucking way for Philo Skinner, Terrier King!
Then he just toughed it out on instinct. He could hardly hear the applause of the terrier crowd. He concentrated on the Kerry. He wasn’t aggressive enough. Maybe if he would growl a little. Christ, the dog was getting old. He had a good steely blue color, though. Where the fuck was Pattie Mae? Keep your goddamn hands off Tutu, you dumb little fucking hippie. Oh, shit, he wasn’t even letting the Kerry set its own pace as they walked counterclockwise around the ring. Oh, shit! He was making the dog move too fast. Another prayer in the dog cathedral. Philo looked up at the steel-beamed ceiling: Let me get through this day and I’ll never place another bet! Except maybe on jai alai if they have it in Puerto Vallarta. Do they bet on bullfights?
Pattie Mae meanwhile was fascinated by the miniature schnauzer, and Tutu was dying to get out of the cage and into an exercise pen. She was growling, wagging, hopping around her cage so much she bumped her head.
“Oh, poor thing!” Pattie Mae cried, opening the cage door. “Poor thing. You hurt your little head.” And the girl scooped Tutu up into her arms and cuddled her against her face. “You’re the prettiest schnauzer I ever seen!”
Then she put Tutu into an exercise pen and gave her a piece of liver which Tutu gobbled gratefully.
The milling throngs of people on the floor of the Sports Arena began flowing toward the food concessions as the morning wore on toward the lunch hour. Philo Skinner was in the ring doing the individual gaiting, “straight-down-and-back.” He gaited the dog on his right to correct a slight tendency toward sidewinding. Then he gave an almost imperceptible tug on the lead to bring the head in from the outward line of travel. Even in a state of terror and panic, Philo Skinner was still a dog man.
When the judge trooped the line behind the terrier, Philo, never one to overhandle, reached down and ran his hand over the hindquarter subtly, ever subtly, because this Kerry showed very fine from behind. He noticed that the female handler on the left was staring at the judge. Dumb bitch, he thought. Bad form. Never stare at the judge even if you do have tits like searchlights.
Philo baited the dog subtly with the liver and the dog struck a noble pose. Goddamnit, he was going to get hold of himself and go out with a win.
Yet Philo was hardly aware of the burst of applause when his Kerry was named winner’s dog, thereby moving closer to his owner’s dream of best of breed, for which Philo was promised a $200 bonus.
Two hundred bucks. Best of breed. Shove it, Philo Skinner won’t be needing it.
When he got back to the exercise pens, Pattie Mae was leaping up and down on her clogs.
“Wonderful, Mr. Skinner! You were wonderful!”
“Yeah, sure,” he mumbled, hardly aware of her young tits jumping, of the look on her face which said: You don’t even smell so bad no more, you old champion, you!
Then he saw the empty cage: “WHERE THE HELL IS THE SCHNAUZER BITCH?”
Pattie Mae almost fell on her ass as she whirled so fast in the seven-inch clogs.
“There, Mr. Skinner! I just put her in an exercise pen! She was getting squirrelly and I just … There, Mr. Skinner! She’s right over there!”
And then Philo Skinner felt all his muscles go limp as he walked over to the wriggling, whining, leaping Tutu. He reached down and scratched her under the chin as the little dog licked and nibbled and whined for the embrace of her Philo.
“Tutu,” Philo sighed. “Tutu, sweetheart!”
Then he turned to Pattie Mae, who was by now totally bewildered. “Pattie Mae, take a paper bag. Go out in the van and bring me that bottle of bourbon that’s in the drawer under the hot plate in the back. Right away! Go!”
“Yes, Mr. Skinner,” she said, and was off, in a clunking run across the arena. The man’s a spaz! A total spaz!
“Tutu,” Philo whispered. “We’ll make it somehow. Somehow!”
Philo Skinner had learned something that all neophyte criminals learn: that it’s pretty damn tough to pull your first job (and even your thirty-first) without something to bolster your courage. When Pattie Mae returned, Philo took the paper bag to the men’s room, sat on the john and passed another pitiful but painful bubble, polishing off half a pint of bourbon faster than he had ever consumed spirits in his life.
After that, Philo Skinner felt a hell of a lot better about the whole business. The first thing he did was sidle up to Pattie Mae and bite her on the neck from behind.
“Mr. Skinner!”
“Hi, you foxy little kennel groupie, you!”
“Mr. Skinner!”
“Go over on Figueroa and buy me another pint of Jim Beam.”
“I’m not old enough to buy liquor, Mr. Skinner. And you shouldn’t be drinking … should you?”
“Not old enough … not old enough,” Philo sighed. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I wasn’t old enough for something? I’m not old enough for social security, and I’m not old enough to get into the racetrack at a senior citizen’s price, and I’m not old enough to ignore the fact that you are not wearing a bra as usual and no panties I bet, and you and me might just go out to dinner tomorrow night and how would you like to go somewhere where the tab for the evening is a hundred bucks? Huh? A hundred bucks?”
“Uh, Mr. Skinner, do you think you’d like some coffee? Lemme go get you some coffee, okay?”
“Too young to buy whiskey! Imagine that!”
“How about some coffee?”
“How about some pot?” He was buoyant. Up, down, up, down. Crime was like an elevator. “All you lint-covered, big-titted, flat-bellied chicks with flowers in your goddamn hair smok
e grass. Jesus Christ, Pattie Mae, turn me on a little! Gimme a joint. I’ll go smoke it in the crapper.”
“I don’t carry it with me, Mr. Skinner. Where would I carry it?” The girl was looking around nervously at the lone cop she’d seen roaming the arena.
“Not in a bra, that’s for sure,” Philo leered. “Not in panties either. So go out in your car and bring me back a joint. No, make it two joints.”
“I don’t know what’s got into you, Mr. Skinner, but …”
“Go do it, Pattie Mae. Go out to your car, dig up under the dashboard or wherever the hell you little grasshoppers hide your stash and bring me back some pot! Hear me?”
“Okay, Mr. Skinner,” she said. This would be her last show with this grungy old hound dog, that’s for sure. Tomorrow she’d start making the rounds of the other kennels. Terrier King, my ass! This old geezer’s brain was thrashed!
Philo Skinner decided he had half an hour before his next dog was due in the ring. Maybe longer because the show was running long. Philo went staggering around the arena floor, hands in his pockets, cigarette dangling from the corner of his tobacco-flecked lips, grinning, winking, leering at every female handler, exhibitor, or groomer, under the age of fifty. He was suddenly in a jovial helpful mood.
A buxom owner and a mousy woman handler were at a grooming table near the grandstand working on a Maltese terrier. Philo stood, hands in pockets, and shook his head.
The Maltese was rolled in oil and tissue paper and tied up with rubber bands so his long hair couldn’t drag on the ground and break off. But the Maltese terrier’s coat wasn’t the problem. His balls were. One was lost.
“What do you mean?” the frantic owner demanded, her diamond earrings dancing. “How can you lose it! My God, how can you lose a testicle!”
“Mrs. Dilfaunt, it happens all the time!” the harried handler explained, while two other dog groomers worked on a pair of bored spaniels who had been through it all too much to lose their balls.
“Happens all the time! To lose a testicle!”
“You’re new to dog shows, Mrs. Dilfaunt,” the handler tried to explain. “The dog is monorchid at the moment.”
“Monorchid.”
“Yes. He’s tense, nervous. It’s his first show. He’s just sucked one testicle up, that’s all. We’ve got to help him bring it down. The judges will reach under there and feel and there has to be two.”
“My God!” the new owner screamed. “I pay a thousand bucks for a one-nutted dog!”
“I used to get the same way when I was tense,” she suddenly heard a voice wheeze in her ear. Then she smelled sour tobacco breath and stale sweat and was staring into the heavy-lidded, boozy eyes of a gangly stranger with blue-black hair. “Tickle the end of my pecker, and I’ll drop my nut every time!”
“Officer!” the woman screamed, as Philo went slinking off through the crowd. Giggling.
When Pattie Mae returned, she put her hand surreptitiously into Philo’s coat pocket and said breathlessly: “One’s Colombia Gold, the other’s Maui wow-ee.”
“Maui wow-ee!” Philo yelled, causing the cringing whippet to defecate for the third time.
And as crowds of the faithful trooped in and out of the Los Angeles Memorial Sports Arena, larger crowds, though not necessarily more faithful, began choking the inadequate roads into the Rose Bowl in Pasadena on a brisk, bright, perfect California football day. And if Philo Skinner had previously been ten times more tense than the entire offensive line of the Minnesota Vikings, he was okay at the moment. Okey-dokey. Philo left Pattie Mae with the animals, and went slinking around the outside rings to watch the working and sporting dogs. He had the two joints in his pocket.
He walked right up to a throng of nail-biting owners of golden retrievers and tried an experiment. He deliberately lit a joint with the butt of his Camel. Then he stood in their midst, hands in his pockets, chuckling to himself, smoking the joint right down to a roach. Once he tapped a man in a suede shooting jacket and said, “Your handler is standing the dog on a little hump of turf. He shouldn’t face him downhill like that. That dog has a sloping top line and the downhill lie just emphasizes it.”
The sport in the shooting jacket turned to Philo, looked him squarely in the face and said, “Sir, that dog is perfect.” Then he whirled and turned back to watch the judging with the rest of the nail-biters. Philo was grinning, the stick of Colombia Gold hanging out the side of his mouth. It went unnoticed. Goddamn, it was fun being an outlaw!
Philo smoked his Maui wow-ee while watching the German shepherds. He had never found a dog show so funny. The middle-aged handlers were really being put through it by a squinty woman judge who was every bit as tall as Philo but lots tougher. She looked as though she was enjoying their agony as much as Philo was. They couldn’t satisfy her. Around and around the ring they ran. The tongues of the handlers were soon dangling longer than the shepherds’. Philo couldn’t contain himself. “Atta girl, Granny!” he yelled. “Run their buns off!”
Then for the first time someone noticed. A teenaged boy in the crowd turned, looked at the emaciated dog handler, and said, “Hey, that guy’s smoking grass!”
But too late. The outlaw was slithering away through the crowd, the joint cupped in his hand, still giggling.
When Philo was back in the arena heading toward his grooming area, he saw a tight little group of groomers and handlers kneeling on the floor next to a howling Great Dane.
“It’s your fault,” the exhibitor barked.
“It’s not my fault, Mrs. Von Geldt. You had the dog all week!”
“It’s my fault,” a young groomer wailed. “I should have noticed.”
“I’m changing kennels!” the exhibitor said.
“That’s not helping matters. Just give me a chance …”
“Is there a doctor in the house!” the exhibitor screamed.
On a whim, Philo Skinner walked up and said, “I’m Doctor Skinner, what can I do for …”
Then he recognized the older dog handler kneeling behind the other one.
“Hello, Philo,” the handler said. He was a well-known veteran on the circuit, so Philo’s fun was cut short. “Anal glands impacted.”
And then, loaded on bourbon and marijuana, certainly not feeling like going up a Great Dane’s ass, Philo Skinner bent his gangling frame and squatted. He could never stand to see an animal suffer.
“I thought he had worms, the way he was sliding around on his bottom,” the exhibitor cried.
“I think it happened today, Philo,” the old handler said. “His eyes still look good.”
“Yeah,” Philo nodded, and without asking the leave of anyone, rancid Philo Skinner, smelling like thirty days in a dog run, probed the Dane’s anus, and with thumb and forefinger—gently, ever so gently—pushed in until he was sure he was behind the glands. Then the dog yelped as Philo squeezed and pulled out and up and the secretion flowed through the anus. The secretion smelled worse than the armpits of Philo Skinner.
“Wash him off, he’ll be okay,” Philo said.
“Good hands, Philo,” the old handler grinned. “You still got those good hands.”
But Philo was up and loping sideways as though catching a Kenny Stabler pass. “Great hands!” Philo yelled. “Just like Fred Biletnikoff!”
After scoring his touchdown and washing his great hands, he returned to the tense group of people swabbing and toweling the anus of the Great Dane. The relieved exhibitor wearing an orchid carnation had her back to him. She caught a whiff of sweat and tobacco as a voice croaked: “Honey, if you ever need any help with your anal glands …”
Then he was off and running. It was a hell of a fun day. By God, Philo Skinner would miss the dog show circuit!
“Mr. Skinner,” Pattie Mae said, shaking her head when he came reeling back to the grooming area. “I see you smoked the Gold.”
“You know, Pattie Mae, tell the truth I never liked grass before. I just might switch.” And with that he gave her a smack on the
bottom. “Damn, I knew you didn’t have any panties on!”
“Mr. Skinner, I just don’t know how you’re going to show the Dandie.”
He looked at the dogs in the exercise pens. She’d groomed them beautifully. Philo Skinner knew he couldn’t have done much better.
“You got good hands too, kid,” he said seriously. “And Philo Skinner doesn’t toss around compliments very often.”
Then he sat in his director’s chair and smoked and listened to the buzz of the crowd and the incessant voice on the public address system: “Janitor, ring nine. Janitor, ring four. Janitor …”
Endless. It was endless. The world was one big heap of shit. There were those that dropped it and those that cleaned it up. Well, Philo Skinner had scooped up his share of shit and now it was somebody else’s turn. He started getting very depressed now and almost felt like crying. It was sad when you thought too much about it. The whole fucking world. Just one big mountain of shit.
Then he heard another crowd cheering. He looked blankly down to the next grooming area. A small television set was being adjusted by the handler there. Jesus Christ, he had forgotten for a minute. Jesus Christ, this goddamn dope boils your brain. The Super Bowl was about to begin! Philo Skinner’s heart thumped in his throat. He lit his sixty-first cigarette.
By terrible coincidence they were showing the Dandies in ring number eight just five minutes before the kickoff of Super Bowl XI. Philo Skinner was standing like a zombie and peering through the hair of an English sheepdog on a grooming table trying to see the small television set.
“Mr. Skinner,” Pattie Mae said, pulling on his arm. “Mr. Skinner, it’s time to show the Dandie.”
“Later,” he mumbled, glued to the tube.
“Mr. Skinner! It’s time!”
Then he turned his drug-dilated eyes to the frantic girl and said, “Pattie Mae, what the hell! Now’s as good a time as any. You show the Dandie.”
“Me! Me show the Dandie!”
“You.”
“Me!”
The Black Marble Page 12
