by Paul Griffin
All across the Jersey side the icepack had splintered. The icebreakers had opened up lines to the George Washington’s towers. Ice plates stacked atop one another chaotically like debris from a demolished building.
‘You hear them rumbles and clicks?’ José said. ‘It’s the devil’s bowling alley down there.’
A slo-mo shockwave rolled under the ice, a pump of tide.
‘We’re goin south now,’ José said.
‘We gotta get off the river. Boat here’s flimsy fiber-glass. We cut the bottom of it on a jag of ice, we’re the blue folks.’
‘Ray, you mention them folks again I’ll chuck you overboard, the three of y’all can leave Earth together, knock yourselves out. I already saved your lame ass once today. Double wrap your arm in tarp. We’re close enough to paddle now.’
They paddled toward the Jersey shore some fifty yards off. Past that were thick woods and a few mansions. ‘Swank, huh?’ Ray huffed.
‘Swank or not this is our stop. See that huge house uphill there? Folks’ll help us if we cry right.’
‘I’m cried out.’
‘Now he can’t cry. Dag, son. You just about kill me.’
They rode the tide and wind on a southwest cut to a yacht club dock.
‘Mind the river mud now,’ José said. ‘Suck our feet right down into the bed, we’ll never get out.’
They jumped from the boat to a concrete ramp used to trailer boats in and out of the water. They misjudged the ramp’s slope in the dark, jumped in a little too early. The water was up to their waists. They muffled their screams, hissed curses instead on the odd chance any security guard happened to be down by the river smoking a blunt. They didn’t need to worry. There was nothing to guard this off-season night, the yachts in dry dock.
‘Leave the rowboat,’ José said.
Ray let the boat drift but snatched the tarp.
On the dock, they shook and stamped like dogs after a bath. Their pants, which had started to dry a bit in the heat under the tarp, were soaked.
José bent over and grabbed his guts.
‘The hell?’ Ray said.
‘Your hair.’ José fell to his knees, screaming laughter. ‘You look like Don King! Your do got all bunched on top your head there under the tarp! Standin off your head like you got your finger in the toaster! Look at that nappy juvie pile, frozen rusty Brillo.’
Ray tried to smooth his frozen hair, pointed to José’s head. ‘Your cornrow tails froze. You’re the Dominican Statue of Liberty.’
‘Don King’s bastard son. The one who ain’t gonna inherit!’
‘Hell we laughin about? We’re about to die out here.’
‘I know it.’
They laughed until they forgot they were on a dock at the edge of dark woods in a foreign town, freezing to death. The snow clouds ran away east, leaving behind wide western sky.
‘Hoo.’ José laughed himself quiet.
On the other side of the woods were manor grounds and uphill the mansion they spotted from the water. ‘Looks like a liberry,’ José said.
‘Like you been to the library ever.’
‘I seen ’em from the outside.’ José slapped Ray’s back. ‘Let’s check it out, partner.’
The tarp wrapped around them, they worked their way uphill over the frozen snow to a back patio and a greenhouse connected to the mansion. The flower beds were bare. José tried the greenhouse door, locked. ‘You go right, I’ll go left,’ José said.
They both went right.
‘Oh,’ José said, spun off left.
Ray went around to the right side of the greenhouse and found two Dobermans staring him down.
14
The Dobermans came on a run out of their greenhouse doggy door, tackled Ray with kisses. They were old, flabby, toothless. One rolled for Ray to pet its belly, the other ran around the side of the house. A few seconds later Ray heard a scream, a clang, a yelp and then breaking glass, all muted in the heavy wind. Ray and the other dog ran around the side of the greenhouse, found the first dog quivering in the patio snow, a blood halo black in the moonlight. Wrought iron patio chair legs stuck out from a smashed greenhouse window. José held another chair over his head, saw the second dog, wound up to club it.
Ray tackled José before the J-man could swing the chair. ‘Hell you doin?’
‘Get offa me, Ray! Dog’s gonna kill us!’
‘They’re nice, man! Yo, stop! They’re old! They’re submissive!’
‘Damn dog bum-rushed me!’
‘To lick ya!’
The second dog came up to the boys, licked Ray, whimpered, ran back to its brother convulsing in the snow.
‘Dag! Dag.’ Ray checked the dying dog. ‘God-dammit now.’
‘How was I opposed to know! Git out the way, lemme put it out of its misery.’
‘You will not.’
José pushed past Ray, clubbed the dog with the chair, killed it.
The second dog hid behind Ray, shivered. ‘J-man, you’re evil.’
‘He was a goner, man. He was suf—’
The greenhouse phone rang.
‘Ah hell,’ José said. ‘Silent alarm.’
José, Ray, and the dog, all shivering, ran through the broken window into a greenhouse just warm enough to keep the water pipes from freezing, in the far corner two ratty dog beds, empty food bowls, soiled newspapers. The place reeked of dog waste. The boys searched the dark greenhouse for the phone.
‘Check it,’ José said, ‘sticker on the window got a bell and a ear with a slashed circle over it so even retards like me can figure it out. Alarm stickers for thieves with disabilities now. Here we go.’ He nodded to a small wall-mounted box next to the door, snapped his fingers for Ray to check out the box. ‘Ray-Ray, just like a bennie, yo. Now where’s the damn phone?’
In the boys’ experience homeowners stuck security code stickers on the alarm boxes in case they forgot their numbers under pressure. Ray leaned on the wall to steady himself as he searched for the code, his legs dead man loaners. He found the code sticker on the bottom of the box.
José found the phone hanging from the back wall of the greenhouse, picked up. ‘’Lo? Thank you, yes. Yup, false alarm. Yes. Yeah, I’m standing by.’
The phone was old school, the cord knotted like a chromosome during mitosis. Ray knew if he even mumbled the word mitosis, José would smack him.
José mouthed to Ray, Gimme the code.
Ray forced his frozen fingers to make the code numbers: flipped José off for number one, then two, three, four.
José rolled his eyes. ‘Code number one two three four. Yup. Yup. Yup. All good. Right, we’re real happy for your business too. Uh-huh, you too.’ José hung up the phone.
‘Poor dog’s all freaked out,’ Ray said.
‘I’m all freaked out. We gotta get outta these wet pants and boots, son. I can’t feel my feet.’ José dialed 1234 on the keypad next to the back door.
They rushed the warm kitchen, ripped off their damp clothes to their drawers, except Ray kept his T-shirt on.
‘Get that shirt off, Ray.’
‘Worry about yourself, man. Lemme catch my dag breath.’
The dog bounced into the kitchen from the greenhouse, its empty water bowl in its mouth, dropped the bowl at Ray’s feet. ‘Who’d leave dogs like this?’ Ray said.
‘I’m gonna find the shower,’ José said.
‘Careful. Maybe somebody’s upstairs.’
‘Have you left Earth, son? Nobody picked up the phone, not to mention I threw a chair through a hothouse window. I think they woulda let us know they were here by now.’
Ray got the dog water, found a garbage can half full of moldy dog food in the pantry. He hit the fridge, fed the starving dog cold cuts. ‘Hell’s goin on here? No food or water, no heat, no company. Surviving on snowmelt, huh? You’re a tough old boy. How long you been alone?’
José quick-limped into the kitchen. ‘Who you talkin to?’
‘The dog.’
> ‘Why’d I ask? I got two mad hot showers runnin upstairs. Get your fat butt up there before you die of cold.’ José ran upstairs, Ray ran after him. ‘Yours is over there.’ José pointed right, peeled off left.
‘Thank you, God,’ Ray said as he sank into the steam and bled the cold from his bones.
Ray slipped into a ski suit he’d found in a closet. The ski hat was definitely the old lady’s—pink and yellow stripes—but it was fluffy and soft and felt nice on his forehead. He hit the kitchen, the dog at his feet. The dog hadn’t left his side. ‘Yo, yo, I smell the J-man’s cookin!’
‘Yo, baby! I got a feast goin here.’ José had a cigar in his mouth, a flapjack flipper in one fist, cognac in the other. He brushed cigar ash off his lapel. He wore the old man’s robe, a silky number printed out in leopard.
‘Nice robe,’ Ray said.
‘Nice ski suit, woman. Want a cee-gar? Guy’s got a whole humidifier full of ’em.’
‘Humidor.’
‘Exactly.’ José fired up another Cuban, blew a perfect smoke ring, gave the cigar to Ray, who couldn’t blow smoke rings worth a damn. ‘I cranked up the heat,’ José said.
‘I feel it. I’m wonderin if we should mosey.’
‘We’re good,’ José said. ‘I seen it on the calendar over the counter there. Says France clear to Monday. Double-check my dyslexic ass, you want.’
‘You spell good enough to get France right.’ A haze of frying butter smoked up the kitchen. ‘Hell you makin here?’
‘Flapjacks of course. They got a Deepfreeze full of pre-made in there. I chucked some Crunch in ’em for sweetness.’
‘The Cap’n lives here?’
‘White folks ain’t stupid. Plus I’ll sink some booze in ’em too, unless you got any objectives?’
Ray smiled. ‘No objectives here.’
‘Attaboy.’ José poured cognac into the pancakes. ‘I’m curious what they gonna taste like, these boozy Cap’n flapjacks here.’
‘They got syrup?’
‘They got every damn thing. Hey, how y’all feelin?’ José said.
‘Me?’
‘No, the other loser behind you.’
Ray looked over his shoulder. No one was there. ‘Good.’
‘Liar.’
‘Think I sprained my wrist when I threw my fit there back in the boat.’
‘Punches the boat, he does. Like it’s the boat’s fault.’
Ray rolled his wrist. ‘It hurts a little when I do that.’
‘Then don’t do that.’ José chugged the cognac. ‘Wanna go shoot some pool?’
‘Nah. Okay. Maybe in a little.’
‘Sure,’ José said. ‘They got foosball too, if that suits you any better.’
‘Foosball’s lame.’
‘You’re lame.’
‘They got a good library down the hall there,’ Ray said.
‘Psh.’
‘Yo,’ Ray said. ‘Thanks for savin my wretched lame-ass life.’
‘Say thanks again and I’ll kill you. Anyway, I did it to spite you.’
‘Yeah, huh?’
‘Son, dyin’s easy. It’s the livin that worries me. Gonna let you drown, leave me to face the craziness on my own?’ José winked. ‘First batch of flaps looks about done.’
‘I’ll finish cookin.’
‘You will so,’ José said. ‘Maybe we oughta eat that poor summabitch Dobie out back there too, so’s not to waste him. A side of meat for the pancakes. Look at the way he’s lookin at me. Dag, son, I’m just foolin. Think I’d eat a dog?’
‘You ate raccoon before. What we gonna do with that poor dead dog?’
‘Triple-bag it, pitch it in the garbage.’
‘The garbage? The regular old garbage?’
José threatened Ray with his flapjack flipper. ‘Son, you’d best shut the fuck up about the regular old garbage. I’m serious as gunfire. Stomp you like the redheaded stepson. C’mon, let’s eat. We got a lot of work to do before we split. There’s julery and such to be stole, praise Jesus.’
Ray cleaned the kitchen spotless. Leaving somebody’s house a sty after jacking it was low-class. He left a list of what they took so the people wouldn’t wonder what was missing.
The boys jammed their plunder into a Mercedes, the oldest of the four collector cars in the garage. They wore the old man’s tweedy hunting clothes, tight on Ray. With his double-bill hunting hat cocked to the side, José was Sherlock Homeboy.
‘Takin the car is too much, I think,’ Ray said.
‘Ray, let me explain somepin to you. We’re criminals by need, not choice, see? I didn’t make the world, son. I’m just makin it better, evenin it out, spread—’
‘Spreadin the wealth, I know, I know. Then if you’re keepin the car, I’m takin the dog.’
José smacked the car roof. ‘You’re not takin the dog. By the smell of tomorrow’s breakfast, we got twenty whore dogs gonna show up from the Ten Mile woods, goddam hairy midgets. I’m not havin that nasty-lookin bastard in my house. Wolf. Look at ’im. He’ll need to eat a cow every day to stay alive. Git out.’ José yanked the dog out of the backseat.
The dog ran around the car, hopped back in from the other side, tail stump a-wag.
‘He’s not comin, Ray.’
‘C’mawn. Look at his nails, man!’
‘What about ’em?’
‘They’re crazy long, means he never gets walked or exercised. All that eye gunk, dry coat, never gets brushed. They dump cheap food in his bowl, that’s all they do for him, he lets himself out the doggy door, starved for attention. Kinda life is that?’
‘I ain’t listenin.’ José stuck his fingers in his ears.
‘Leavin him and that other one alone all weekend.’
‘Lalalalalalalaaaa.’
‘No dog sitter, not enough food or water, locked in the damn greenhouse, shit and piss all over the floor. These people are the devil’s hands.’
‘They’re smart. If they left ’em in the house there’d be shit and piss on the rugs. They’re dogs, man. They did fine out there.’
‘Until you killed one. Murderer.’
‘The dog was attackin me, man! Why you gotta sweat me so, son? First it’s gettin me out on the goddam river—’ ‘Ninja Man!’
‘Squirrel Boy!’
Ray petted the dog. ‘J? Go to hell.’
‘I’m plannin on it, the fun part, where they keep the whores, booze and pizza.’
‘I’m still takin this dog with us. Don’t even try to stop me. After what you done to the first pup, you owe me.’
‘If I owe anybody it’s the dead dog.’
‘I’m not leavin this other dog here behind on his lonesome.’
José threw up his hands. ‘Hell with it. So take ’im. I don’t know who’s uglier, you or him.’
Ray kissed the dog, let the dog lick his lips.
‘That is true blue foul.’ José pissed into a garbage can. ‘Know where his mouth’s been, prob’ly?’
‘Lappin clean white snow.’
‘You keep tellin yourself that. Wind up with green mushrooms growin off your lips tomorrow.’ José plunked onto the tailgate to change out of the old man’s slippers into the old man’s tennis shoes. The toes of his left foot were black and gray.
‘Damn, J-man. You’re frostbit.’
‘Yeah, but it’s gettin better. It don’t even hardly hurt no more.’
‘J, listen. I think we might oughta go see Doc.’
José squinted at his toes. ‘You’re tellin me they ain’t comin back then?’
‘Let’s let Doc have a look-see is all I’m sayin. Damn, man. J, I’m, like, I’m sorry, man.’
‘Say sorry again and I’ll kill you.’
‘Can’t say sorry, can’t say thank you, anything I can say?’
‘That you’ll leave that goddam dog here.’
‘No.’
José nodded. ‘To Doc’s, then.’ He went to the driver-side door.
‘Your foot, man. I can drive
.’
‘It’s my left foot’s hurt. Right’s fine. Think I’m gonna let you drive? You’ll drive us off a cliff to avoid hittin a snowflake. Git in.’
Ray slumped into the backseat to be with the dog.
‘Where to, Miss Daisy?’ José said. ‘Look at ’im poutin. The hell’s wrong now?’
‘Serious? You wanna know?’
‘Am I gonna be sorry I asked? I am, I can tell. Here it comes. Shit.’
‘Right about now I’m wonderin if there’s anybody up there that cares a whit about us.’
‘You have got to be shittin me. What, like, is there a God who got your back, you’re sweatin?’
‘Damn straight.’
‘I got your back. Idiot. What else you need?’ José fired up the engine. ‘Squirrels beware.’
15
Hospitals asked too many questions. Doc worked on the down low.
He lived out back of a liquor store, lost his license for doing surgery drunk. Rumor was he amputated the wrong leg of some guy with bone cancer. José sat on his good foot as Doc gave him Valium and vodka, shot his bad foot with Novocain. He almost didn’t feel Doc cutting away his toes.
‘In a month you’ll be running,’ Doc said. ‘You may have a pimp limp.’
‘I pimp limp any damn way, Doc.’ José tried not to grimace.
Doc sipped vodka between cuttings, nodded to Ray. ‘Squeeze your friend’s hand to steal the pain off his foot. Squeeze his fingers hard.’
Ray did.
‘Damn, son, leggo my paw,’ José said. ‘Never mind m’ toes, you’re crushin m’ fingers. Vise grip he’s got there, Doc.’
‘I’m strong as hell sometimes,’ Ray said.
‘I guess you are sometimes, then,’ José said.
‘I’m guessing by the sound of those coughs,’ Doc said, ‘you both have something horrible in your lungs. On that shelf over there is a box full of antibiotics. Grab yourselves a fistful each.’
Ray poked through a dusty box. ‘All I see is rotgut brandy.’
‘In the box next to the brandy, but take a bottle of that too.’
Ray found packets labeled BAYTRIL—CANINE. ‘Says here this is for dogs, Doc.’
‘It’s all the same stuff.’
‘Says here it’s expired.’
‘It should still work.’ Doc stitched José’s foot.
