by Mike Faricy
I let go of his leash. “Go Morton, go, Princess Anastasia. Get him Morton, get him,” I called after him as he took off. In a matter of seconds he was on Crewcut.
Crewcut heard Morton give a vicious bark and growl and did a quick glance over his shoulder just as a maintenance guy wheeled a large plastic trash bin around the corner. The bastard was just in the process of turning back around when he ran into the trash bin at full speed. Bottles, cans and papers flew in all directions as he stumbled and Morton leaped onto his shoulders. He tore Morton off and threw him against the brick wall. Morton gave a loud yelp as he bounced off the wall then rolled across the floor and seemed to shudder.
Now it was my turn and I slammed into Crewcut just as he was getting back on his feet. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and pulled him back down. He rolled with the tackle giving me an elbow across the side of my head in the process that had me seeing stars as my head bounced off the concrete floor. He seemed to twist away effortlessly and was climbing back to his feet when I grabbed his ankles and he went down again. He gave me a knee on the chin then kicked his heel into my nose before he snatched up a beer bottle from the trash scattered across the floor. He bounced the bottle off my forehead and I curled up into a fetal position with my hands trying to protect myself as he smashed me over the head with the bottle. He scrambled to his feet then stepped back to kick me in the face and I knew I was finished.
Thank God Morton wasn’t, he suddenly sailed out of nowhere with a deep throaty growl and his teeth bared. He clamped onto Crewcut’s thigh taking him down and then hung on, Crewcut dropped the beer bottle as he fell. He rolled over, wrapped his massive hands around Morton’s neck and began to squeeze just as I wound up and slammed my fist right between his eyes.
I remembered a combat instructor in the army telling us to think past the target. Don’t think about hitting someone in the face, visualize punching all the way thru to the back of the head. I wound up and swung, punching thru to the back of Crewcut’s head, connecting with everything I had just as he half turned and focused on my fist heading toward him. I don’t think I’ve ever hit anyone harder in my life.
It knocked him back, and he released his grip on Morton just before his skull bounced off the concrete floor and his eyes rolled up into his forehead. I blacked out and learned later that I had kept on hitting him. I guess it took two of the security guys and a cop to pull me off him.
They transported Crewcut to the hospital in the back of a squad car. Morton and I had the luxury of the paramedics and an ambulance ride. Morton had a fractured rib, a sprained hind leg and a cut that required six stitches. When next I saw him he wore one of those cones around his neck to keep him from ‘attending’ to his wounds.
I got two black eyes, a fat lip, a powder-blue nose splint and a temporary cast on my wrist after hitting Crewcut as hard as I did.
Apparently Princess Anastasia was found safe and sound, locked in the same kennel with her arch rival Hershey the Chocolate Lab. It turned out that Cecil “Crewcut” Kissler was estranged from his wife, Melinda and the initial thought had been that he’d kidnapped the princess and placed her in Hershey’s kennel to embarrass her. At least that was Melinda’s version.
Natasha and Princess Anastasia missed their one o’clock competition for the semi finals. I guess that meant they were out of the running which was really too bad, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
For my part, I was just glad to be finished with the entire, sordid affair.
Chapter Sixty-Six
It was close to dinner time, Morton and I were finally home, splitting a beer along with a large bag of Bar-B-Que potato chips and just taking it easy. We were watching Topless in Tropicana, sort of an artistic DVD. The dialog was a little weak and I had been thinking, “If I never went to another Blessington Kennel Club show it would be alright with me,” when the phone rang.
“Haskell, Tommy Allesi.”
“If you’ll just give me a moment I can explain everything, I think. See, Natasha drank three or four bottles of….”
“That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Oh?”
“Where are you now, you out of that hospital yet?”
“Yeah, we’re both at home here, resting.”
“We?”
“Morton and I.”
“Morton? Oh yeah, that dog, even better. I’ll have a driver pick you up in ten minutes.”
“To tell you the truth, Tommy neither one of us is in any condition to work. I’ve got a cast on my wrist, a nose splint, a ringing in my ears, a goose egg on my forehead and I can’t walk without limping. Morton’s been stitched up, has a fractured rib, a hind leg in a splint and one of those protective cones on his head.”
“Sounds perfect,” Tommy said.
“What?”
“You haven’t been watching the news? Natasha and Princess Anastasia got some sort of special dispensation or something. They’re competing in the semifinals, tonight at six. It’s been all over cable news and the internet, the story’s gone viral.”
“I was just checking out some international news,” I said and picked up the remote to turn down the sound. Six girls in Tropicana were giggling, about to step into a pool of jell-o and wrestle wearing only blindfolds.
“Look, my car is on the way, Natasha could really use your support down there, plus, well, it will give you a better shot at winning.”
“Winning?”
“Yeah, you told me you wanted the eighteen hundred I’m paying you, placed on the princess, remember?”
“What are the odds?”
“They were about a hundred to one when she was kidnapped and I placed the bets. Now that you found her they’re back to about fifteen to one and getting tighter by the minute.”
I figured I could do the math while waiting for Tommy’s car. “We’ll be waiting out front,” I said then picked up the remote again and turned off the tube just as the first innocent stepped into the pool of jello.
“Car’s on the way,” he said and hung up.
Morton and I had been waiting outside for no more than a minute or two when a shiny G class Mercedes, dark blue not black, with shiny chrome wheel rims pulled up at the curb and we hopped in back. Mercifully, this time the driver wasn’t Denis Malloy.
“Here are some security passes, for you and your dog, Mr. Haskell,” the driver said handing them over the seat as he sped down toward the Xcel Center and the Blessington Kennel Club. “Mr. Allesi sent along a cane for you to use.”
“I’m just limping, it’ll be okay.”
“Actually,” he said looking at me in the mirror. “He sort of, you know, would prefer that you use it. Kinda give folks the idea that you were involved in a struggle, like.”
“I got a nose splint on and a pair of black eyes that make me look like a raccoon for Christ’s sake.”
“Sorry, I’m just following orders. They’ll have some sort of handicap assistance for you at the door, take you right down to a front row seat. I’ll drop you off at a special entrance, Mr. Allesi has it all arranged.”
“Yeah, okay whatever.” I was starting to understand what Tommy was doing, which led me to a whole lot of other questions.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
The Mercedes cruised to a stop at the handicapped entrance and a cop stepped over to open the door for us.
“Hey, don’t forget the cane, here, Tommy wants you to use it. I’d appreciate it too, it’ll be my ass if you don’t, you know.”
I nodded, reached over the front seat and took the cane. I clipped on my ID, then Morton’s and we gingerly stepped out of the Mercedes.
“Great job, earlier today, guys,” the cop next to the door said just as the handicapped door to the Xcel Center opened and another cop made a sweeping gesture with his hand and said, “Your welcome awaits.”
There was one of those motorized carts with a driver, just like at the airport, waiting to take us to our seats. Only this cart had a sign on either s
ide that read “Morton” in large black letters and then beneath that, my name sort of as an after thought, in much smaller letters. Red, white and blue banners were draped on either side and the back of the cart.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea as we drove along the mezzanine. All sorts of cell phone’s were flashing and taking our pictures, people were pointing at us, clapping. A buxom blonde bounced toward the cart, but just as I thought I might get lucky she squealed, grabbed Morton’s nose and rubbed it in her cleavage. Eventually we were dropped off at some sort of press entrance. We hobbled through a door and down a short ramp toward the front row on the ground level.
Tommy Allesi was there waiting for us at the end of the ramp just before we entered the seating section. A gorgeous redhead in a form fitting ushers coat, very short black leather skirt with slits up the side and sheer black stockings stood leaning against Tommy with her arm linked in his.
Morton did his usual gorgeous woman greeting and thrust his nose up under her skirt. She didn’t so much as blink.
“Great to see you, Haskell. I gotta say that nose splint and your dog’s protective cone couldn’t be better,” Tommy said.
I sort of shrugged.
Tommy nodded at the redhead then said, “Let Pinkie here put a sling on that arm.” He nodded toward the temporary cast on my wrist.
“Oh, thanks, but that’s really not necessary.”
He ignored my comment and moved his head slightly in my direction. Gorgeous Pinkie sprang into action gently running a deft hand along my neck and then across my shoulder during the process of fitting the sling for me.
I was thinking maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. She settled my arm into the sling, gave me a quick peck on the cheek and stepped back, smiling. I became momentarily lost in the faint scent of sensuous perfume.
Tommy’s cellphone suddenly beeped and he pulled it out and read a text message. “Okay, they’re just about ready to start, Pinkie will lead you out there.”
“You’re not joining us?”
“No, they don’t need to see me, besides this is your moment, Haskell, so please don’t screw it up. Okay, honey,” he said then patted her on the rear, then Morton and I followed her through the door.
We stepped into a darkened arena with a number of spot lights sweeping round, back and forth over the crowd. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but from what I could tell the place was packed to standing room only.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Pinkie stood there looking gorgeous, exuding her sensuous perfume and waited. Just as I was about to ask her what was up a smooth voice came over the loud speaker system.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, a special round of applause for our two heroes of the competition. Won’t you please welcome three year old golden retriever, Morton.” The arena erupted in cheers and then as sort of an after thought he mentioned, “Along with Morton is Mr. Devlin Haskens.” The spot lights swept back and forth across the crowd and then suddenly landed on the three of us. The roar of applause, cheers and ear splitting whistles grew even louder.
Pinkie gave a big, happy, sexy wave to the crowd, then turned and shrugged at me. “Doesn’t matter what they call you. Come on now, you just stay real nice and close to me, baby.” Then she sort of blew me a kiss, winked and stepped off. We followed her to our seats as the applause and whistles continued.
Morton acted like this was just an everyday occurrence as we limped behind Pinkie to a plush viewing box sitting on a raised platform. The seats were upholstered and as Pinkie bent over to prepare the seats and move a foot stool in front of my seat her short leather skirt rose up even further and a fresh wave of whistles and applause erupted.
“Have a fun night, maybe we can link up later,” she said, slipped a note with a phone number into my hand, then deftly ran her fingers up the side of my face and strutted off.
The lights came up in the arena and things gradually seemed to settle down. The judges, there were six, walked out one by one into the competition area as their names were announced. Once they were all assembled in the middle of the competition area a hush fell over the entire arena and the lights dimmed. It became eerily quiet for a long moment before the announcer’s voice boomed out and the spotlights all focused on the entrance to the competition arena.
“Ladies and Gentlemen. For the first time ever, in the ninety-three year history of the Blessington Kennel Club a very special, scored, semi-final competitive trial. Please welcome Princess Anastasia, a three year old standard poodle and Ms Natasha Kominski.”
Once again the place erupted into deafening applause. I clapped, but I literally couldn’t hear my own hands clapping. Natasha strode out into the spotlight with the princess on a leash, waving and smiling at the crowd. She did a full circle around the competition area acknowledging everyone before she headed over to Morton and me. They both made a graceful bow which only increased the noise level by another ten decibels.
I saw Morton barking at the princess, but I couldn’t hear him. I attempted a gracious bow back toward them, Morton’s tail was wagging a mile a minute. And then things finally settled down and Natasha began to run the princess through their routine.
When they’d finished their routine, fifteen minutes later, the scores from the judges flashed up on screens throughout the arena. The eighteen thousand plus crowd went wild as each score came up on the screens. Four perfect and two near perfect scores flashed out over the crowd on the giant monitors.
Forty-five minutes later Morton and I were being driven home in the back of Tommy Allesi’s Mercedes. Morton seemed about as tired as I felt and to tell the truth, I was looking forward to a cold beer or two and the rest of the night on my couch.
“We’ll pick you up tomorrow right around the noon hour,” Tommy said turning around in the passenger seat to talk to me.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, what, you forgot? It’s the damn finals.”
“Do we really have to?”
“You gotta be kidding me, Haskell? Were you paying attention out there or just focusing on Pinkie’s rear end? You and your dog there were worth at least twenty points on the score sheets, the emotional impact was tremendous. I knew it would work, but I never figured it for this much. If I had any sense I’d probably have Simon here rough you up a little so we could grab even more sympathy at the finals tomorrow.”
Simon looked over and chuckled.
“We’re going to hang onto the cane and that sling, they worked wonders. You could maybe use something to darken that bruising around your eyes. Maybe fatten that lip up with a hammer or something.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right, no sense in overkill. Tell you what might help, just a slight, occasional grimace as you’re sitting or standing. You know, just to keep the crowd hooked.”
“I think you might have the wrong guy for that sort of bullshit, Tommy.”
“Well, let me just remind the wrong guy that his eighteen hundred bucks is riding on Princess Anastasia winning. That doesn’t happen, I’ll be more than a little unhappy, not to mention, you got your ass handed to you by Cecil Kissler for nothing.”
I could suddenly see the logic. “I think that sling and cane might just do the trick. I’ll pet Morton out there on our viewing platform. What do you know about the other dogs in tomorrow’s competition?”
“There’s only one, the former favorite, Hershey. But I never….”
“Hershey? The owner is Melinda Kissler? Her husband’s Cecil? The guy who kidnapped the princess in the first place? How the hell are they even competing?”
“Some extenuated circumstances, sort of an estranged marriage, maybe. Lot’s of questions, anyway, she’s the competition. Look, we couldn’t have asked for anything better. Talk about good versus evil and like I said, just having you and Fido there will be worth a solid twenty points with the judges.”
“His name is Morton.”
“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, Princess Ana
stasia needs to win by fifteen points for you to get paid. You be there tomorrow with a limp and a grimace and that alone will be worth twenty points. I don’t like doing anything halfway, I want to make sure they win.” With that Simon pulled to the curb in front of my place and Morton and I carefully climbed out.
“Tomorrow,” Tommy said then closed the door and they sped off.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Morton and I were waiting on the sidewalk for Tommy Allesi a few minutes before noon. Tommy’s Mercedes pulled up promptly at twelve and we climbed in.
“Good job, Haskell, fantastic, you look even worse than yesterday,” Tommy said.
“Gee thanks, same drill today? The grand entry and all that nonsense.”
“You can’t tell me it didn’t work. By the way,” he said and tossed the sling over his shoulder into the back seat. “Slip this thing on and don’t forget to use the cane. Remember, I’ll want you doing the occasional grimace out there as well. The dog is still limping, right?”
“Yeah, Morton’s still limping, not to worry.”
“Good. We’ll all meet afterward down in that flop house area where they’ve been sleeping. Get some PR photos taken, that sort of nonsense. Then, you want out, Simon will be happy to take you wherever you want to go,” Tommy said and glanced over at Simon.
“Sure, sure thing,” Simon said.
They dropped us off at the handicapped entrance and I grabbed the cane before hobbling out of the car. Just like before there was a courtesy cart with signs on either side and red, white and blue banners waiting to deliver us to the door marked “Press”. The crowd parted to make way for us, people applauded and so many cellphone cameras flashed I was afraid my PTSD would kick in.
Once through the “Press” door Morton and I waited alone for a good twenty minutes before Pinkie strolled down the ramp. I could hear her stiletto heels clicking before I saw her. She looked even more sexy than last night, if that was possible.
