by Warren Adler
by Warren Adler
“How am I supposed to work?” Milton complained. “The mutt whines all day long.”
Milton wrote mysteries and worked at a computer on his desk most of the day. His room was on the other side of the wall from Mrs. Martinez’s apartment. It had actually been a second bedroom but he and his wife, Barbara, had converted it to his writing room. The room had built-in bookshelves and a studio couch where Milton stretched out to nap, usually in the afternoons, when he completed his self-imposed writing allotment for the day.
Mrs. Martinez, a widow, shared a landing on their fifteenth-floor co-op on Madison and 81st Street. There were only two apartments on their floor, but the configuration was such that the wall of Milton’s writing room was the same wall where the Martinez’s dog was ensconced all day long.
Invariably, the dog, which was of some small white fluffy breed with coal black eyes, began to whine just about the time that Milton sat down at his desk to write, which apparently was the same time that Mrs. Martinez went off to work at some job in Wall Street. It was an eerie sound, like a low human whimper of pain, but the fact that it was on the other side of his wall, probably no more than a couple of feet from his computer, gave it special significance, at least to Milton.
It wasn’t that way when the Frazers lived there. They spent six months in Florida and even when they lived in the apartment, the bedroom that was on the other side of the wall, was rarely, if ever, used.
Ever since Milton had complained to Mrs. Martinez about the dog’s whine, her attitude was frosty. Not that she had ever been friendly, but she did offer a smile and a pleasant greeting, although it was clear that she had no intention of socializing with her neighbors. Neighborliness had a different connotation in Manhattan than it did in the rest of the country. Proximity did not equate with intimacy.
Mrs. Martinez, an imperious type with ramrod posture, was always immaculately dressed and coiffed, her jet black hair parted in the middle over a high forehead and a decidedly feral and suspicious look in her eyes, which grew more hostile after Milton’s complaint.
“As you know, the building allows pets,” Mrs. Martinez replied indignantly without apology. Milton’s explanation, he quickly discovered, was futile and immediately dismissed.
“The fact is,” Milton explained to Barbara, “this dog and I are the only two residents on this floor during the day.”
He was able to ascertain by deduction, since he was a mystery writer, that the little dog was paper trained and rarely taken out for walks except on weekends when he noted through the door peephole that Mrs. Martinez carried the dog into the elevator and Harry the doorman confirmed that she took the dog for a walk, probably in Central Park, which was a half a block away from their apartment.
At first, Milton was reluctant to bring up the matter with the co-op board. A disciplined writer, he was very selfish in the use of his time and was not inclined to set off a protracted struggle with the detail-oriented, overzealous board, most of whose members were lawyers.
“It’s such a cute little pooch,” Barbara said.
“You don’t have to live with his whining all day long.”
“Buy yourself some earplugs,” she suggested.
“I did. They’re uncomfortable and I can’t hear the downstairs buzzer.”
She was more amused than sympathetic. The fact was that she was very partial to dogs and spoke lovingly of Bitsy, the standard poodle she had owned growing up in New Hampshire, and often expressed regret that they didn’t own a dog.
He had rejected the idea. He didn’t want the hassle and convinced her that it would be unfair and too confining to have a dog in a New York apartment.
For similar reasons, they had postponed having children. Besides, they were fixated on their careers. He was into his third book of his mystery series, which had given him a modicum of notoriety, and she was a rising executive in academic administration. Both were on the cusp of forty and they had grown too used to their lifestyle and unwilling to take on further responsibilities.
The whining little dog next door had become, at least for him, a disruption. For her, it was barely a blip on her environmental radar.
“I never hear it,” Barbara told him.
“Of course not. You’re at the office. It stops when the lady gets home from work.”
Barbara was out of the house during the day at her job as an assistant dean at Hunter College, not far from their apartment. On weekends, she rarely went into his writing room and the fact was that apparently, he had deduced, Mrs. Martinez gave the dog the run of the house during those days. It seemed obvious, too, that the little mutt’s whining sounds were probably signs of loneliness.
Milton’s work began to suffer. He became irritable and distracted. He was not meeting his five-page-a-day allotment and, worse, he couldn’t even take his daily nap.
“I must say, Mrs. Martinez,” he told her, catching her on the landing as she left for work in the morning. “I’m trying to be neighborly but your dog’s whining during the day is really interfering with my work. In fact, it’s driving me crazy. Perhaps if he wasn’t cooped up in that room all day long. You see, we share a wall. . . .”
He could see that Mrs. Martinez was becoming indignant, her eyes narrowing, a flush rising on the high cheekbones of her dark complexion.
“Don’t tell me how to live my life,” she sneered. “Besides my Vickie is not a he. She is sweet and gentle and quite content in her room during the day.”
Her room, Milton thought startled. She has a whole room for herself.
“Hell,” he complained to Barbara. “Imagine that. Think of the cost. The woman is crazy. Her second bedroom is for her dog.”
“She loves her dog. People become very possessive about their pets. I can understand that.”
“If she’s so attached to the pooch, she should take it to work with her.”
“Why not suggest it?” Barbara said, chuckling.
“I value my life.”
“Then find a way to cope. Write in the kitchen.”
“The creative life requires ambience. I love my room.”
He could tell that Barbara was not as sympathetic as he would have liked. At one point he persuaded her to postpone her leaving for her job and listen to this doggie serenade that was making his life an agony.
“I can see where it can be somewhat of annoyance, but I’m sure you can find a way to cope. I mean it’s not real loud, not vicious watchdog barking. Why not try music? You like music. Use your iPod. Beethoven’s Fourth would do nicely.”
“Not while I write. My muse doesn’t like music when I’m creating.”
Milton had the impression Barbara was not completely on his side. Finally, he decided to bring the matter up with the co-op board, who agreed that they would hold a meeting to discuss the matter and he was welcome to state his case.
Mrs. Martinez, as a member in good standing of the co-op, was also invited to rebut his complaint. She brought Vickie to the meeting and some members of the board petted and fussed over her. Vickie was remarkably silent, very friendly. She delicately licked fingers and was downright charming.
He rehearsed his plea with great care and thought he had made an impassioned case for his rights as a creative artist to work in peace within his own boundaries. At the tail end of his argument, he delved into the psychological.
“I’m telling you she makes these whining sounds as soon as Mrs. Martinez leaves, as if she were crying out of loneliness. It is, in my opinion, not a healthy situation for anyone who loves animals. The dog is a prisoner in the woman’s apartment.”
“You sound like a dog psychologist, Mr. Preston,” one of the board members commented as he stroked Vickie’s head.
“She is a member of my family. I love her as my own child,” Mrs. Martinez said with passion. “People who love animals will understand. This man hates animals.”
“She has her own room,” Milton interjected. “Can you imagine? One of the room
s in this coop is reserved for a dog.”
“I have every right to use my apartment as I see fit.” Her eyes roamed the faces of the dour board members like spotlights. “This is a free country, and property rights are its foundation.”
“I have the right to my privacy,” Milton opined. He could tell that he was losing the battle, and the next day he was proven correct.
“We’ve canvassed all of the coop members,” the Board Chairman told him in a telephone call. “No one has heard anything that would constitute grounds for any action.”
“I live on the other side of that wall. It annoys the shit out of me and interferes with my livelihood. I demand action.”
“You always have the option to sell your share in the building, Mr. Preston,” one of the board members said with obvious irritation.
Milton was furious.
“Apparently an animal in this building has more rights than a human,” he muttered as he left the meeting.
“A dog gets more respect than a creative artist,” he complained to Barbara.
“I will not move,” Barbara said when he reported on the meeting. “Under no circumstances.”
It became increasingly difficult for Milton to work. The rhythm of his life had been totally disrupted.
“I’d like to strangle that little bitch,” Milton cried. “I want her dead.”
He sensed that he was entering the tunnel of a deep depression. As his work diminished, then stopped altogether, he grew despondent and began to fantasize about ways to eliminate his nemesis. He was, after all, a mystery writer and pretty nimble when it came to creating murder scenarios.
On the Internet, he researched various poisoning methods, finally concluding that he would, under the circumstances, be the logical culprit and a lawsuit or worse was sure to ensue in the wake of the assassination.
Disposing of Vicki soon turned into an obsession and he spent what was normally his writing time figuring out ways to eliminate his tormentor in a way that would not come back to haunt him. His first step would have to be breaking into Mrs. Martinez’s apartment, no small feat, since every apartment door was equipped with excellent locks.
Harry the doorman and his night replacement Barney kept duplicate keys in a small cupboard near the service elevator. Both were trusted employees of the coop and when an apartment owner forgot a key, they would produce the proper key and open the apartment door. Security procedures were very strict and no one was able to enter the apartment without being announced and the doormen controlled the self-service elevator.
There had never been a break-in or burglary in the apartment building in anyone’s memory, and the tenants felt secure in the care of their ever watchful doormen and the other employees of the building including the superintendent, the porter and the managing agent. It was an older building built in the early thirties of the last century with twenty floors.
Most of the apartment owners, including Milton and Barbara and the Martinez woman, allowed the doorman to enter their apartments with the duplicate keys when a delivery was special and would be safer inside the apartment and such action was arranged in advance by the owner.
Such details were crucial to Milton’s plans as he plotted during every waking hour how he was going to eliminate his nemesis and promulgate the perfect crime, avoiding any proof that he was the perpetrator. As for the process of elimination, he determined that he would somehow get the dog out of the apartment, find a way to get it out of the lobby without arousing the suspicion of the doorman and drive it outside the city for disposal.
The disposal issue became a test of his nature, which was decidedly non-violent, and it became apparent after much soul searching that he could not be a murderer even if the victim was a dog. Instead, he determined that he would remove the dog’s registration medallion and deposit her anonymously at an animal shelter. The rest would be up to the compassionate shelter people and those who might wish to adopt the dog, who was obviously expensive, pedigreed, and cute enough to attract a new owner.
After due deliberation, he realized that the first place Mrs. Martinez would look would be an animal shelter in the city. He rejected that idea in favor of finding an animal shelter outside the city limits, perhaps Westchester County.
He felt more and more exhilarated by his plotting effort. Perhaps someday it might find its way into a book.
As for the effect of his action on Mrs. Martinez, he could generate little pity. Collateral damage, he assured himself. Of course, he would have to survive her scrutiny and accusations, but he felt fully prepared for such an onslaught. This was a core issue in his life and it had to be resolved.
“You seem in fine fettle these days, Milton,” Barbara told him. “You no longer are fixated on Mrs. Martinez’s dog.”
“I’m coping,” he replied with a snicker.
There were steps to be taken. He had to establish a pattern, one that would pass muster in any investigation. Under the pretense that he was researching a new book, he would roll a small suitcase through the lobby, offering Harry, the doorman on day duty, the comment that he was transporting books back and forth from the library for research.
“Not so simple being a writer. Lots of reading required,” he would tell Harry as he entered and exited the apartment lobby. After a few weeks of establishing the pattern, he pretended to have lost his key, which gave him an opportunity to follow Harry to the place where he kept the keys, which were neatly hung by apartment number on hooks in the key cupboard behind the elevators.
By establishing Harry’s work patterns, he was able to determine when Harry popped out briefly to order a sandwich for lunch, a matter of a few short minutes, but just enough time for him to filch the key to the Martinez apartment, open it, then bring the key back to its proper place in the cupboard. Of course, everything had to work like clockwork. He had to get his car out of the nearby garage, find a parking spot away from where it could be seen from the building, execute the key theft, remove the dog, and achieve his getaway.
This required numerous dry runs. Of course there were still risks. Above all, Vickie had to be quiet when he passed through the lobby with his small rolling suitcase in which she would be sequestered. He had to take other precautions as well like wearing rubber gloves to prevent any fingerprints on the door or interior of the Martinez apartment.
He was, he knew, breaking and entering, perpetrating a burglary and kidnapping a dog, or dog-napping as he referred to the action in his own mind. He was, he knew, committing an illegal act and, if caught, would require prosecution. Weighing all the risk factors, he decided that it was a question of his sanity and his career. To him, this was the most serious crisis in his life. He felt that he had no choice.
When he was certain that he had laid the groundwork, he picked the date for his action. He had done his research well, finding an animal shelter in Westchester County and “casing” it carefully. To further disguise his identity, he bought a wig, glasses, and false moustache from a magic shop in Greenwich Village. His plan was to get to the animal shelter, drop the unidentified dog off at the shelter, and quickly disappear.
It turned out that the numerous fictional plots he had concocted as a mystery writer was remarkably prescient. On the chosen day, at exactly noon, he took the elevator to the lobby. Harry had ducked out to get sandwiches. Quickly, he found the key on the hook labeled by the number of the Martinez apartment. He dashed back to the elevator, which he had switched to stop, went up to the fifteenth floor, opened the door to the Martinez apartment which he kept open by a wooden stopper he had prepared, then went down again and quickly replaced the key. He had also taken the precaution of wearing rubber gloves to hide any fingerprints.
In the Martinez apartment, he found little Vickie in her own room, paper spread on the floor on which she had peed and defecated her tiny leavings. He was able, in a split second’s observation, to see how beautifully Mrs. Martinez had decorated the room, all in pink with a pink little bed, a pink food-and-water bowl,
and low pink upholstered furniture for Vickie to lounge on. The pink bed was located exactly on the opposite side of his wall, no more than, at the most, less than a foot away.
Seeing him enter her room, she stopped whining immediately, wagging her tail excitedly, and staring at him with her large coal black eyes. She was surprisingly light and cuddled caressingly against his arm as he carried her out of the apartment. Then he carefully locked the door to the Martinez apartment, placed Vickie in his rolling small suitcase in which he had wrapped the wig, moustache and sunglasses in a plastic case, and proceeded down the elevator.
Moving quickly, he waved to Harry who was eating his sandwich, and rolled his suitcase into the pleasant sunny spring day elated with the brilliance of his well prepared exercise in dog-napping. Once in the car, he took Vickie out of the suitcase and sat her beside him. As he drove toward the West Side Highway, she cuddled close and, despite the hatred he had harbored for her all those months, he found himself caressing the soft fur of her shoulder.
Do not waver, he urged himself. Show no sentiment. If you want your career back keep going. By then, he convinced himself that Vickie was sure to find a new owner who would lovingly care for her. After all, she was an expensive breed, beautifully groomed and, at the very least, paper trained, and would make an excellent pet for anyone who appreciated beautiful animals. He was tempted to attach a note to her that might read: Do not leave alone.
He parked his car a few blocks from the animal shelter, then donning his disguise, he waited for just the right moment to drop the dog off at the shelter. He felt certain he had not been observed, and this method of dog disposal without comment was probably a common occurrence, given the guilt and shame that might be associated with such abandonment.
Two hours later, relieved and exultant, he was back at his computer, luxuriating in the retrieved silence as he attempted to pick up the threads of his mystery novel. Expecting the impending storm when Mrs. Martinez returned from work to find Vickie missing, he had trouble finding his creative muse as he lingered over the scenario of what to expect and his own rehearsed reaction.
