by Pat Connid
"ONE OF WHO? WHO?"
She pulled into a low crouch and said, "Listen, kid, when they finally come to you just give them what they want." The gun lifted from the floor. "They always get what they want. Always. Christ, it's why they're-- whatever."
I took a half step forward and she shook her head.
One last try, I asked again: "Who is doing this to me? This is my life, and I’m not in control of it anymore!"
"Well at least you got that right." She raised the gun, but didn't point it toward me nor my canine friend. "Give them what they want when they ask, and it'll be over."
"Over? They can have whatever they want, I don't have anything. They can take it and leave me alone! And don't call me kid, lady. You're the same fucking age as I am."
"Yeah," she said and closed an eye. "They said you were smart, really smart, and I had to be on my toes." One last time, she looked me in the face, expressionless. "I don't see it."
Her lips parted, then the gun exploded in her hand, my ear drums exploded with it, and the dim garage bulb spit fire, then went dark.
Down on one knee (I didn't remember dropping), I watched the outside door bang open and close like a lighthouse flash, and then I was back in the dark. My first worry:
"Toby? You okay?"
Nothing. My heart sank and I pushed the door behind me farther open, turned on the hall light. The thick, yellow beam of light painted a rectangle on the garage door and just to the left of it, I saw the big, midnight black dog in the corner of the room, shifting from paw to paw.
"Oh, thank god."
Toby whimpered back and I took a few steps forward. "You really are all bark and no bite, huh? Come here, thanks for--"
A low growl rippled from the dark.
"Okay. I'll say thanks from here." I stopped and backed up one step. "Good dog. Maybe I can feed you one of the neighbor kids as reward, okay?"
Toby’s tongue hung out, and some part of me wondered if it knew what I had just said.
Chapter Twenty
Pavan jumped backward, then forward again, unsure what he should do with his feet. “What is that? What… what was that noise? What makes that kind of noise?”
“Toby needs water,” I said.
“What’s a Toby?”
“Its papers say ‘dog,’ but I don’t think that’s the complete picture.” I stood to get the jug, and then stopped.
I'd called Pavan and, thrilled to be back in action, he was at the Dvorak's house the next morning.
Nashville was about four hours away, so round trip plus an hour of time (give or take) at Solomon-Bluth regional office it was going to be a nine or ten hour road trip.
The kitties, they had their little box, and I could load them up with food and water easy enough. Toby required a little more attention. He’d need a trip around the block once or twice.
Once in the garage, Pavan asked if he could hold Toby's leash as we walked.
"Are you serious? You're not afraid he'll eat you?"
He'd gleefully taken a pair of work gloves, slipped them on, and grabbed the chain. As he walked over to Toby in the corner, my stomach flinched, but the dog watched Pavan like a curiosity. An odd, little dude. And, honestly, he's my best friend but that's how most of the world looks at him.
Why should the dog be any different?
According to the missus of the house and the note left by the Dvoraks, I was to feed the cats twice a day. Thankfully, dog fed itself.
There was an instruction to “play” with the kitties, too. As felines are notoriously poor at “fetch,” I couldn’t really imagine what sort of playing they were into. There was an air hockey table in the basement, and it seemed conceivable they would enjoy batting around the flat, plastic puck, but a few days earlier, I'd discovered the air jets only scared the willies out of the cats, and it took me more than an hour to pry them out from under the game room’s sofa.
Old school, I'd searched the home for yarn but the closest thing available had been dental floss. Muggles (or Ruggles) didn’t seem interested, but Ruggles (or Muggles) played a little but constantly lost sight of it, only to strike out in frustration once it did find it, which skewered my hand once too often (once) and that little round of playtime was over. They seemed content to swirl around my feet as I tromped from room to room, so “playtime” became the twice-daily routine of walking through every room in the house with the kitties in tow.
The note also said that I was to walk Toby the bear-dog a couple of times. It didn’t say “a couple times a day,” so it seemed a few times over the next week and a half would suffice.
The midnight black dog in the backyard at one point ran out of food and simply bit through the bag sitting next to the empty one. I did not, however, find any shards or strips of thick, brown paper, thus it seemed apparent that Toby had eaten the top portion of the bag.
Pavan and I were going to be gone for the day and since Toby had defended me against "Sorority She-Ra," at the very least, he deserved a quick, rewarding walking tour around the block.
Outside, Pavan's enthusiasm dimmed only slightly, as the big dog effortlessly pulled him down the sidewalk.
“How far you supposed to walk him?”
“I dunno. Never had a dog.”
"Doesn't make you a very good dog-sitter, man."
For such a nice neighborhood, all this work on keeping lawns and yards perfect-- nobody ever went outside. Maybe they were all part of some new fad of in-town vacation properties.
"I’m a house-sitter, Pavan. Not a dog sitter."
"But if the house you’re sitting on has a dog, then you are a dog-sitter, too."
"Well, if you put it that way, I guess," I said.
Pavan was still grinning that stoned grin of his. “Man, this is not a dog. It’s like some Woolly Mammoth someone thawed out and put a collar on.”
“Don't talk like that. You’re just making me nervous,” I said and decided that the dog would let me know how far we were walking into the early morning, which was as it had cooled began to pull a thick fog blanket down to keep the earth warm.
Luckily for me, in this setting, the hound of the Baskervilles was at the end of the leash Pavan was holding and, theoretically, on my side. If anyone tried to get me, Toby the dog could eat him.
I’d told Pavan about my encounter with the blond in the Dvorak’s house the night before, and how I’d seen her a couple times before.
"What did she mean by 'they'? You asked about Sodom-Boof and--"
"Solomon-Bluth."
"Right, and she said 'they' meaning you got more than one person after you."
She’d said: They always get what they want. Always. Christ, it's why they're-- whatever
They're… what? What was she about to say?
"So I've got a group or team or company after me because they want something-- and they'll get it-- because 'they' always do."
"What kind of team?"
Shook my head. “Either way, I’m not hiding the rest of my life. Time to impose my will on the enemy for a change,” I said, watching Toby sniff around a bush that had been sculpted to look like a mushroom.
“Is the Toby-dog going to eat that bush?”
“Fine by me.”
“Listen, man,” Pavan said and turned to me. His soft features sharpened slightly. “What do you hope to find at… you know, this place? In Nashville.”
"It's the only thing I have to go on right now. I know The Mentor and a hot blond might in some way work for them."
"Oh, you didn't say she was hot. How hot?"
"And, that it's a 'them' not one person. Not just a him… or her."
"Well if it was just the one guy, that guy would be the owner guy of Sandman--"
"Solomon-Bluth. How hard can that be to remember?"
"Now it's jumbled, permanently… it's lost forever, man. The owner dude, what's his name?"
Toby stopped so we stopped. When he would move again, we would move. I only hoped Toby decided to go home soon. O
r at all.
"Marion Bluth."
"It's a chick?"
"No, just an old dude. You know John Wayne's first name was 'Marion.' Tough guy like that."
"Neat. Who the fuck is John Wayne?" Pavan said and his head snapped back halfway as he was yanked forward again. "Nevermind. So you got a bunch of guys all hanging out, like Wayne Bluth."
"Christ, Pavan," I said and laughed. "Okay, why do I have a ‘bunch of guys’ like Marion Bluth?"
"'Cause guys with big houses, big cars and skinny wives only hang out with other guys with big houses, big cars and skinny wives."
"Huh."
"When was the last time you hung out with a millionaire?"
"Billionaire."
"Whoa, fuck a duck! No shit?" Pavan hopped a couple times, trying to hold onto the leash. Toby had sped up and was moving toward a long expanse of lawn, capped by a gorgeous white, antebellum mansion. "Wish I'd been born into that family."
"Nah, money like that makes weird kids."
"With money like that, they don't never call you weird, man. Eccentric."
I nodded. Pavan is smarter than he looks. Well… he'd have to be.
"So you got a bunch of rich guys gunning for you," he said plainly.
I stopped.
Pavan, not his fault, kept walking.
"What?"
Calling over his shoulder, he said. "If there is a 'they' and one of the 'they' is Big Money then the other 'theys' are Big Money. Big Money don't hang out with Little Money."
She'd said: "They always get what they want. Always. Christ, it's why they're--"
"Billionaires?"
I caught up to Pavan and he said, "Yeah, maybe. Are there a lot of those kinds of guys around?"
Well, I couldn't be sure they'd all get the big B tag, but Pavan had a point. And, playing back She-Ra's conversation back in my head, when I'd asked about Solomon-Bluth--
Oh yeah. Actually, I think one of them does run that place.
In this group, 'one of them,' a billionaire didn't stand out from the rest. And Big Money wouldn't really stand out, as Pavan put it, next to Big Money.
Pavan broke my train of thought.
"What if you do find your Mentor guy? Track him down. Whaddya do, then?"
“There’s a Cobb County detective I’ve talked with. He’s a good cat. I could—“
“Oh, so you… you are going to karate chop the guy, tie him up with your shoelaces, and call in the cop guy?”
"I'm glad you find it so funny."
“Sorry, but the only thing I’ve seen you go hand-to-hand with is a foot-long roast beef sandwich!”
Pavan, again, was right. Still, I pulled a package out of my pocket that had been hanging on a hook in the novelty section of the gas station. Tearing open the package, I tossed the bracelets to Pavan.
They hit his chest and he caught them with his free hand. His smile grew so wide, I wondered if he could taste ear wax.
“Toy handcuffs? No way, man. You are a crazy bastard!”
“My ex-girlfriend put those on me one time,” I said. “She swallowed the key, thinking it was a sexy move. After we were done, not so sexy anymore being strapped to the bed.”
“Sure, you can't go to the can or get out if there's a fire or nuthin'.”
“Right, my exact thoughts, sure. Uh… Tried and tried to get the things off. One option was to load my girl up with Raisin Bran and give it a couple hours.”
“Gross.”
“Instead, we called the landlord to get me out of them. Even he said they were surprisingly sturdy.”
Tossed the cuffs back. Well, if your landlord says they’re good…”
Pavan belly laughed and got a quick yank again from Toby.
"Toby, eat my friend if he dares to laugh at me again."
I looked down and saw we were halfway up the manicured lawn of someone’s very nice and very large home.
When Toby finally began to pull his hind legs forward I realized he was about to push some of that paper dog food bag out of his system.
I took a step back. Pavan looked up at the house and handed me the chain.
"Come on, we gotta hit the road."
There was a stiff tug on the leash as Toby started moving away from his deposit. As we started walking again, thankfully, the big dog was moving back in the direction we'd come from.
Pavan, braver than me, looked back and whispered, “It’s like a Volkswagen.”
“Don’t look at it,” I said, shuffling forward, being dragged by the huge animal . “If the owner of that house sees us, he might make us haul it away.”
When we'd rolled up to the house, I stopped for a quick second not instantly recognizing the car in the driveway. Then remembered it was Pavan’s P.O.S.
"Huh. Where'd ya put the van?"
Pavan was making zigzags as he walked next to me. "I drove it to the airport and put it in long term parking."
"Why?"
"I think I saw it in a movie one time," he said and this was enough of an answer for my friend. Made perfect sense. "Then I took the bus back to my neighborhood."
"Okay."
"'Cept the bus, sucks! I ended up at the bus depot and from there I couldn't get home. So, my cousin picked me up."
I'm not sure how many cousins Pavan had. Or uncles or aunts. But I'm pretty sure every day since we've been friends, at some point, he's mentioned one of his cousins. And if you told me that he'd never brought up the same one twice, I'd be inclined to believe you.
Before we left for Nashville, we stocked his car with munchies and beer. Loading up the back seat, I saw that he already had a couple dozen snack sized bags back there.
“How many empty Funyuns bags are back here?”
“Chill, they’re not all empty, man,” Pavan said.
“What is this stuff?” I'd dug deeper into the silvery-foiled abyss. “I don’t think they even make this stuff anymore.”
Pavan got in the driver's seat and set up his soda and, why? a new bag of Funyuns. I was sure that if I kept digging, I might find something of value. Or maybe a small family.
"Dude, stop digging back there. You're messing with my funyun-shway."
You don't want to mess with a man's funyun-shway, now.
For as long as I knew him, almost two years, we'd never taken an extended drive together anywhere. Pavan is a courteous driver and he told me one time he drives as if his mother was watching him. She died some years ago and he believes that she might actually do that.
"You think she's passed through the pearly gates, living in light of God's love in the halls of heaven, but leaves to watch you drive?"
"She doesn't like rude people. Her big thing. And on the road, easy to be rude. So, I drive not-rude. In case, you know, she's checking up on me."
I opened the window and looked outside. The trees were set back from the road a little as if they knew better than to get too close to our cars. Maybe the deer told them.
"Is she watching you now?"
He shook his head. "Sure, why not, maybe."
"So, is it just when you're driving?"
"Ah, man, don't do that."
I kept quiet for a moment and could tell he was thinking about his mother, who he cared very much about.
"Does she watch you in the shower?"
"DUDE, shut up with that!" He actually swerved a little.
"Oh, rude swerving. She won't like that."
Taking another drag from his third joint since we left he said, "You have something very wrong with you."
At the two hour mark we stopped to leak, and I filled up his car. After years, I'd finally cracked the seal on my savings account, the money I'd gotten from the hospital lawsuit, and preferred spending in on Pavan than me.
That got me thinking.
Why would a group of ultra-wealthy people be after me? Not after me, but after something I… had?
After the forty dollar fill up, I still had well over four hundred thousand dollars in the bank. Not rich but ce
rtainly not broke.
"I'm thinking they're not after my fat bankroll," I said to my reflection in Pavan's back window, which seemed to agree with me.
What do people with money want? Stock answer: more money.
Okay, if that were the case… what did I have-- and I didn't have anything-- that would be worth a lot of money?
When we started seeing the signs for Nashville, I'd fallen into a sleep-wake coma. I was very comfortable and began to think I'd picked up a contact high from my driver, Puff the Magic Dragon.
Pavan (aka Puff) on the other hand was looking a bit agitated. Impressive after a half dozen joints.
"So, what are you going to ask these people when you get there? Is that Wayne guy there?"
"I doubt it," I said and grabbed the pages Pavan had printed up from the library. "They've got eight regional offices and a main one in New York. I think if he goes into any of them, it'd be that one."
"I don't wanna go to New York, man."
"Nah, I doubt the guy even goes there. He's too busy giving secrets to the Chinese, paying a nickel a day for labor and selling shitty computer chips to U.S. government."
Pavan nodded. "Yeah, he sounds busy, man." He drew in a deep breath of smoke-- tobacco this time-- and blew it out the window. That stuff, he blows out the window now. Sure. "So, what are you going to do, then? At the place?"
"Ask around. What do you think I should do?"
"I don't know, man! You're the one trying to get all Scooby-doo on ‘em. I'm just the driver."
The night before I'd had trouble sleeping and was rolling that very question around in my head. I'd come up with a couple scenarios but Pavan was right-- this was detective territory (cartoon dog detective or not)-- I don't know much about storming a place, shining someone on to get me something I wanted to know.
Especially when I really didn't know what I was hoping to find out. Anything, I suppose.
One of the few friends I have left from college (or at least one I can recall) works for the big news network, downtown. She's an "associate producer" which is a pretty cool title but it really just means she’s a bit of a gopher, gets video clips for whatever show she's assigned to.
