"Schnauzers?"
"Yes, schnauzers." The girl looked quizzically at Philo as she wiped her eyes with a tissue. Then she pointed at Tutu in the exercise pen.
"Yeah, well they're running late. Get her ready. I'll tell you about mini-schnauzers. Cheer up a little, okay."
"Sure," she sniffed.
Now he was once again Philo Skinner, Terrier King. He was still woozy from the drug and the whiskey, but he was taking hold. There was no turning back now. That fucking Kenny Stabler couldn't miss with those passes. Was that Philo Skinner's fault? Was it his fault that Jim Marshall and Alan Page couldn't penetrate the Oakland offense and nail that whiskered son of a bitch? Jesus Christ, the Vikings were too old. Too old! The whole fucking world was too old! Is that Philo Skinner's fault?
"Okay, Pattie Mae, I'm going to give you a little bit on schnauzers while we get this little bitch ready."
"Great, Mr. Skinner," she sniffled, starting to recover from the loss. "By the way, where did she come from?"
"Whaddaya mean?" he said quickly.
"I mean, who owns her? How did we get her today? She's not one a our dogs is she? What's her name? Is she listed in the show catalogue?"
"Goddamn, Pattie Mae, you ask a lot a questions," said Philo, lighting a cigarette with steadying hands. "She's a beauty, isn't she? A little tiger. Schnauzers should never be cute. Growly and feisty, that's the sign of a winner. Know why?"
"Why, Mr. Skinner?"
'They were rat dogs in the old days. Tough little bastards. They could get chewed up by a whole goddamn platoon a rats and still come out on top. You ever wonder how we can strip them down like we do? Pluck them clean as a chicken and they don't feel a thing? The nerve endings aren't near the surface a the skin. That's why you can strip out these double-coated dogs. Strip the wiry jacket and the downy cotton. Try that with a poodle or Afghan. Just try it."
Philo's hands moved as gracefully as a blackjack dealer's. Touching, scissoring, trimming, combing. Pattie Mae almost forgot that he hadn't answered a single one of her questions.
"Sometimes you get a garbage coat on these schnauzers," Philo said, as he saw an almost microscopic lash protruding from the triangular shade of the schnauzer's shaggy eyebrows. "Sometimes they just grow a crummy jacket and all you can do is strip em out and wait till next time."
Tutu didn't move a muscle as Philo's scissors passed across her beautiful brown eyes. Tutu trusted Philo implicitly.
"Look at that eyeshade, Pattie Mae," Philo said, genuinely admiring the head of the little schnauzer. "You could almost shine that silver, put it in your little hope chest. You got a little hope chest, Pattie Mae?"
"What's a hope chest, Mr. Skinner?"
Jesus Christ. They're all so young. Young!
'Those goddamn Kerry blues give schnauzers lots a trouble in shows," Philo said, eyes darting toward the ring where he would not be showing this schnauzer. "People really like Kerry blues for some reason, but me, gimme a schnauzer any day. These are little working dogs, is what they are. Not some frigging pet. They reach. You got to learn how to use that lead, make these little tigers reach. Like a little Clydesdale horse. Look at the gorgeous furnishings on this bitch!"
"She's the best-looking schnauzer I ever seen, Mr. Skinner."
Second best around here, Philo thought. Second best. You'll see the first best later. About the time Fran Tarkenton is sitting on his ass in the locker room wondering what the hell happened. You'll see and even touch the first best and you won't even know it! Philo was feeling so much better he even took a peek down Pattie Mae's blouse when she leaned over the back of the schnauzer to comb her leg furnishings.
"She has such beautiful legs. As straight as posts," the girl said, admiring the sturdy silver furnishings, trimmed so that the little black toenails barely showed. "I like the schnauzer better too. More ..."
"More balls," Philo Skinner said. "You like your dogs with balls and your men with balls. No sissies for you, right Pattie Mae? Real guys. Hey, Pattie Mae?"
"Sure, Mr. Skinner," the girl sighed, giving Philo the once-over. Six feet three, 145 pounds fully clothed. Hair like an ungroomed otter hound, dyed like a Kerry blue, chest like a cocker spaniel, legs like a whippet, droopy eyes like a beagle. At this moment smelling like one of those barrels of crap the honey dippers are scooping up in the show rings. A real guy, Mr. Skinner. Oh, gross!
"Janitor, ring number one. Janitor, ring number fourteen. Janitor ..." The voice was chanting it now. "Janitor, ring number nine." It may as well have been in Latin. "Janitor, ring number twelve." Hail boxer, full of shit. Old age and shit! Philo wanted to cry. A church full of shit clear to the dome! A canine cathedral full of dog shit!
"Mr. Skinner, where did you say this schnauzer came from? What's her name? Who owns . . . ?"
"Here," Philo said, suddenly handing the scissors to the girl. "There's one hair protruding one-sixteenth of an inch from one of the furnishings. See if you can find it and trim it off. Old eagle-eye Skinner spotted it."
And when she took the scissors he let his hand fall against her left breast, the back of his bony knuckles sliding over the large nipple.
Eagle eye, my ass, she thought. Beagle eye, you mean. Beagle-eyed, smelly old fart. Ugh!
He had to come up with a story. She had already asked enough to get suspicious. "This little bitch, she, uh, well, I have this client. Oil. Scads of oil. Moved to Tulsa to be closer to her goddamn derricks. I ever tell you about how a savvy handler can give a rich client a champion, widiout too much trouble?"
"No," she said, looking over every inch of the schnauzer's furnishings for the elusive little hair he had referred to. Where was the dumb thing?
"Well, see, Pattie Mae, I can take a dog and pick some shows in Iowa or Oklahoma. Like once I took a Lakeland terrier on the Oregon circuit for a client. We entered five shows in five days and I earned all fifteen points and brought home a champion to mama. In a Lear Jet! Mamas own little Lear Jet. She slipped me a thousand bucks from her own little bank account, because daddy was a stingy old bastard. She also tried to slip me something else, I might add." With that, Philo gave Pattie Mae another pat on the fanny.
No pants, Philo thought, sighing.
Sickie! Pattie Mae thought, sighing.
"Anyway, Pattie Mae," Philo continued, "this broad that moved to Oklahoma, she called me and asked could I show her schnauzer. She's been keeping it with a sister-in-law in Malibu or somewhere. So I said okay, for an old client, and went out to Malibu, picked it up and here she is."
Then Philo Skinner stopped, lit a cigarette and stepped back from the grooming table. He held up Tutu's chin and said, "You know what? I still don't think she's ready. Her coat just isn't sharp enough. I don't wanna show this little bitch today."
"Mr. Skinner! I'm no expert, but ..."
"Remember that!" Philo snapped.
"Yes, but I think this is the finest miniature schnauzer I ever seen! Why her coat looks prime to me, Mr. Skinner."
"To you, Pattie Mae, to you. Did you find that protruding hair in the furnishings?"
"Not yet," she said, bending lower, picking up the front paw of the patient Tutu, who panted and looked at Philo. Adoringly.
"Not yet," Philo scoffed. "And you think you know when a schnauzer is ready? Gimme those scissors."
And with that, Philo snatched the scissors from the girls hand and clipped a nonexistent hair from the left front furnishing and said, "That's why you're here at Skinner Kennels. To learn. To learn from the Terrier King of the West Coast. This schnauzer is not ready and I'm looking out for the best interest of my client by deciding not to show her. Christ, there's a thousand other dog shows this little bitch can enter and win. When she's ready.''
"You know best, Mr. Skinner."
"Believe it, baby," Philo said. Then he reached over and chucked the girl under the chin, once again letting his hand drop and slide across her nipple. "Hey, you did okay today. Who knows? You might win the terrier group with the Kerry."<
br />
The fate of the Minnesota Vikings was sealed at about the same moment the miniature schnauzers trotted into the ring that afternoon. Pattie Mae was. Standing by the ring next to Philo Skinner, who was watching every movement of a bitch called Victoria Regina of Pasadena.
"Look at her!" Philo said to Pattie Mae, whose feet were killing her and who was ready to call it a day.
"Beautiful!" he said. "No crossover in those feet. Tail not set too low. Great neck. Bet she stands thirteen and one half inches right on the nose. See, our schanuzer could never have beat that bitch. That is a champion."
"I guess so," the girl said, avoiding Philo's tobacco breath.
"I've never seen a finer mini-schnauzer," Philo mused. "Look how those first two schnauzers paddle. Schnauzers shouldn't paddle like toy poodles, for chrissake."
Then, pandemonium. Someone called the stick. Dog showing is a ladies and gentlemen's sport.
"Son of a bitch! The stick!"
"That rotten bastard!"
"Prick bastard!"
"Kick his rotten ass, George. Challenge that dirty scum- sucking rotten little asshole."
"The stick!"
"What happened, Mr. Skinner?" Pattie Mae cried.
At one glooming station they were growling, snarling, lunging toward the ring. The people, that is. The dogs were quietly sitting, or trying to sleep through all the hullabaloo, nuzzling their balls, licking their twats, biting at imaginary itches brought about not by fleas but by the nervousness of the human beings which affected the dogs like poison ivy.
A siren could be heard faintly on Santa Barbara Avenue. The cops were chasing a drunk driver from Minnesota in a Hertz Rent-A-Car. He was careening around the Los Angeles Coliseum convinced that his Vikings were inside kicking the shit out of those pussies from Oakland. He was twelve miles and eighteen points away from the right stadium and the right score. The sirens set the dogs to howling, though Pattie Mae thought the dogs had joined the howling humans because they'd called the stick. Everyone took up the chant.
"He called the stick! The prick!"
Even Pattie Mae started yelling, "He called the stick, Mr. Skinner!" She was caught up in mob frenzy. "The dirty prick called the stick!"
"Pattie Mae, do you know what the stick is?" Philo asked. "No."
"Calm down for chrissake and I'll tell you."
But it was hard to talk over all the noise.
The humans snarled and the sirens wailed, and some of the dogs in the ring began to howl and move their bowels.
"Janitor, ring number one. Janitor, ring number four. Are there any more janitors on lunch break? All janitors to the arena floor!"
"What's the stick, Mr. Skinner?" she asked when the animals and people stopped howling.
"See that third guy in the ring? The one with the phony dyed red hair?"
Yeah, phony hair, Pattie Mae thought.
"That guy with the phony dyed hair, he's an anesthesiologist from Laguna Beach. A one hundred percent, never deviating, pure-blooded, American Kennel Club registered, prick. He called the stick on that little schnauzer that Billie Jefferson's showing. See the little bitch? Third from the judge's right? Well, she might be a mite under twelve inches at the withers, and that prick, he can spot a schnauzer under twelve inches better than anybody I ever saw. He's called for the stick more than anyone. They used to walk them under a wicket, like a croquet wicket. Poor Billie. That little bitch isn't going to measure twelve inches. She'll be disqualified and Billie knows it. Poor bastard. Been a handler even longer than me. Hustling to make ends meet and some rich doctor from Laguna calls the stick on him. Poor bastard. Bet Billy'd like to put that fucking doctor under the wicket, play croquet on his goddamn phony dyed head. Poor old Billy. Hard to make a living running a kennel, Pattie Mae.''
"But if you love dogs, Mr. Skinner ..."
"Love dogs," Philo said, and looked longingly toward ring number seven. His last dog show. "Yeah, I always loved them, true enough. Long as I can remember. When I was a scrawny hungry kid widi not enough for me to eat, I always shared with some goddamn dog. Now I'm a scrawny hungry man and . . . aw, what the hell."
And for the first time, Pattie Mae looked at the old bastard with something other than apprehension or loathing. "You're not so scrawny, Mr. Skinner," the simple girl said. "You just smoke too much. And I'd lay off the Colombia Gold I was you, you're liable to lose some clients."
The little schnauzer measured n15/i6 inches at the withers and was disqualified. The handler's groom at the next station vowed to cut the anesthesiologist's heart out with a stripping knife. And without any anesthetic, the cocksucker.
Then Philo Skinner, with an odd stare that frightened Pattie Mae, turned to her, and said: "Do you know how far people will go to win a show? In Madison Square Garden they cut the eyebrows and whiskers off a Scottie."
"They did! Oh, that's gross!" Pattie Mae grimaced.
"And they poisoned a collie. Poisoned him."
"Oh, my God!" Pattie Mae cried. She couldn't even bear to hear about people who didn't brush their animals. She sat for hours with her own Manchester terrier searching for fleas and ticks like a mother chimpanzee.
"I'd never hurt a dog," Philo Skinner announced. "Not for anything. Not ever. I'd rather kill a man than hurt a dog. Can you understand that?"
He was sweating again and starting to smell. The girl just looked at the staring, droopy, beagle eyes of her boss, and said, "Yes, Mr. Skinner."
The time was drawing close. Madeline Whitfield's bitch was certain to take a terrier group first. But she'd never get a chance to win best in show because Philo Skinner had other plans.
Madeline Whitfield was ecstatic when Vickie won winners bitch. She was jumping around on the grandstand seats, banging friends and strangers on the arms and shoulders. Being congratulated, shaking hands, wiping tears from her eyes.
"Get the photographer!" Madeline cried. "Somebody get the photographer!"
Madeline Dills Whitfield was absolutely positive that this was her day. Victoria Regina of Pasadena was now a champion. She wasn't going to stop here, she was going to win best in show. Let them read that in the Los Angeles Times tomorrow with their all-bran cereal. Let them see who won Best in Winter Show, 1977! Madeline Whitfield couldn't quell the tears of joy. The more she was congratulated the more they flowed. Okay, Beverly Hills Kennel Club, are you ready to increase your membership to twenty-four? Not yet? Well, wait a few weeks. Wait until Victoria Regina of Pasadena wins Westminster! Wait until Madison Square Garden! Screw you, Junior League! She was never so happy in her entire life. All forty-three years had led her to this: her destiny. The pain, the sacrifice, had all been worth it. She was nearly a celebrity!
In thirty minutes she would be one of the most miserable, terrified women in Los Angeles. She would be infinitely more miserable than Fran Tarkenton, who was, at this very moment, caught by the television cameras, sitting on his helmet on the sidelines, wondering what the hell went wrong.
An exhibitor walked by the grooming station of Philo Skinner and said to a companion: "Our bitch is in season. She's not showing well."
Philo Skinner, who had never seen the woman in his life, said, "Yeah, you look a little nervous yourself. Checked your drawers lately?"
He was like that. Scared. Bold. Wild. Up again. Is this the way criminals were supposed to feel? It was as though all the conventions, all the regulations, of the American Kennel Club had lost their meaning. These were the rules he lived by and they didn't mean a thing. He felt like taking off his Brooks Brothers coat and paisley necktie and yelling, "Janitor! Janitor! Come to Philo Skinner!" He wanted to throw it all into the steaming vats of dog shit. This is what it must be like to blow a safe, to steal a diamond, to rob a stagecoach! He didn't know it, but he was being propelled by the same megalomani- acal force as an eleven-year-old bike bandit named Earl Scheib Lopez. He was a goddamn swashbuckler!
He went to the exercise pens and picked up Tutu, who licked his hands and face as he car
ried her to her crate. He put her inside and for the first time in his life he did something which would cause great discomfort to an animal. An animal he loved. An animal which was going to let him live the rest of his days like the gentleman he always aspired to be.
"Pattie Mae, go over to the concession stand and get me some coffee. Black."
"Yes, Mr. Skinner," she said, and was off.
He took the syringe from the inside of the herringbone jacket. To be extra safe he removed it from the leather case and squeezed out a few drops.
Philo was still feeling some effects of the bourbon and marijuana. He hugged the little schnauzer to his face and kissed her whiskers. Tutu was delirious with joy because Philo was letting her lick his face. She growled, and licked and nibbled and told Philo how much she loved him.
"I wish I could take you with me, honey," Philo whispered.
Philo Skinner looked around. Most of the crowd was hovering around the ring. A few groomers were stationed at the grooming tables to watch over the animals not in the exercise pens. Nobody was paying the slightest attention to Philo Skinner.
"You and me, we could run on the beach in Mexico," Philo whispered. "If there was any way, you know I d take you. I know you don't like that fat old bitch you live with, but she'll treat you okay. Oh, Christ, I'm sorry, Tutu ..."
And he jammed the needle into her shoulder.
Tutu yelped and looked at Philo in disbelief. The tranquilizer worked at once, just as they said in the dog books. The dog's eyes filled with pain, then bewilderment. She looked at Philo Skinner like a stranger. She actually growled in confusion at the man she adored. Then she began panting and her eyes drooped and looked glazed over.
"You'll be okay, sweetheart," Philo whispered as he moved across the arena floor, bumping his way through the crowd, "You'll be okay in a little while, sweetheart. Philo's sorry." He forced himself to walk. Walk toward the grooming station of dog handler, Chester Biggs.
Philo Skinner had his hand under the chin of the little schnauzer, holding her head upright. Stroking the semiconscious animal under the chin, keeping his eyes riveted on his objective, hoping that he had assessed correctly, and that Chester Biggs, who often discussed sports with Philo Skinner would be . . .
the Black Marble (1977) Page 13
