Duffy to the Rescue (The Duffy Dombrowski Mysteries)

by Tom Schreck

  “Don’t come any further or I’ll cut you.” It was Christy’s friend. She had had Christy in her arms on a dilapidated old couch but had bounced up and flashed a sling blade knife that I measured at a about seven inches long.

  “Christy, are you okay?” I said. She hadn’t left the couch and was holding her stomach.

  “Don’t fuckin’ talk to her,” her friend said.

  “It’s okay, Karen, he’s my counselor, he’s all right,” Christy said through a grimace.

  I heard footsteps behind me and Al scurried a bit and then barked in the direction of the parlor.

  “Hands in the air, all of you, hands in the air!” It was a guy in dress gray slacks, a golf shirt and those dress utility shoes that cops wear. He had a gun pointed at Karen.

  “Christy, get off the couch and come with me. This is over,” the guy said. He ignored me, Al and except for his peripheral vision, he ignored Karen her too.

  “Who are you,” I said with my hands in the air by my ears.

  “Shut up asshole, I work for the senator and I’m here to get Christy,” he said.

  “I’m not going with you!” Christy yelled.

  “You fucking pig. You’re going to make her have that baby. You fucking pig!” Karen said.

  “It’s too late any way. I took something,” Christy said but she grabbed her stomach in pain and grimaced again.

  “You can’t just take this kid and make her do anything. I don’t care who her mother is. It isn’t right,” I said.

  “Shut the fuck up asshole,” he said, glancing at me while he held the gun on Karen and looked at Christy. “The last thing I need is the opinion of some punchy tomato can fighter.”

  He motioned to Christy with his free hand to come toward him while keeping the gun trained on Karen. Things were happening fast and I couldn’t get my mind around all of it but I knew I didn’t like this guy. Fucking with someone sent by a senator didn’t seem like a smart move. Fucking with a guy working for a senator holding a gun in the middle of a crack house didn’t seem entirely rational either.

  Christy started to recoil into the couch as if she could bury herself there and as she did she squinted hard in pain and the guy stepped toward her. It was at that moment that Al pulled on the leash, spun around twice and went into that familiar posture to relieve himself. The cheeseburger did its job at an odd time and the absurdity caught the guy’s attention.

  “What the fuck…that’s disgust—” he didn’t get to finish his commentary.

  I took his instant of distraction and shuffled in and hit him with a right jab that splintered his nose in a dozen pieces. I could feel and hear the cartilage break around the knuckles of my fist and his hands instinctively went to his face. He dropped the gun and I leaned to my right and threw a combination of hooks into both sides of his gut. He was focused on his nose and didn’t brace himself at all so the wind went out of him and he collapsed on the floor writing.

  “Let’s get out of here!” I yelled and lifted Christy over my shoulder and handed the leash to Karen. We sprinted out the back, over the fence, down the alley and across the street to the El Dorado. Christy and Karen dove into the back seat and Al took his spot in the front, sitting up and barking.

  A few heads turned on Swan Street but they did so carefully and then went back to their business. They were used to crazy shit down here and didn’t pay attention to it. I hit the gas, turned right on Livingston and headed up town until I saw the Key Bank parking lot where I pulled in.

  “Okay, it’s honesty time. What the hell is going on?” I said.

  “We don’t have to tell you anything,” Karen said. So far the kid really only seemed to have one emotion.

  “He’s okay Karen. He’s okay,” Christy said.

  “What did you take Christy?” I said, for the moment ignoring Karen.

  Tears ran down her face and for a moment she couldn’t talk. Karen spoke and for the first time it wasn’t in anger.

  “She took some herbal shit to abort the baby. She doesn’t want any part of her mother’s bullshit. The baby was from when she was whoring for crack,” Karen said and rubbed Christy’s neck.

  “I don’t know what I want.” Christ was sobbing now.

  “We’re lovers and her mother couldn’t ever accept that. She can use the drugs and the pregnancy and make it part of her fucking campaign but she’d never accept us,” Karen said.

  I sat and looked at the two of them. Karen held Christy and Christy cried into her chest. They were oblivious to me. I pulled out my cell phone and hit a stored number that I used a lot on the job.

  “Jenn, it’s Duff, how late do you guys stay open?” I said to my old friend from Planned Parenthood.

  “Another ten minutes. What’s going on?” she said.

  “You mind working late tonight?” I said.

  I drove the girls to see my friend Jenn who would help her with medical care and making some decisions. Whatever herbal shit she took would cause her a lot of pain and, though not particularly great for a pregnancy, there was a good chance it wouldn’t seriously hurt the fetus. Christy and Karen could sort out options and make a decision on their own. It was the type of decision I was grateful I would never have to make.

  The next morning I was eating a stale donut and drinking the world’s worst coffee in my cubicle when Trina buzzed me.

  “You got a call,” Trina said.

  “Who is it?”

  “She wouldn’t say.”

  I hit the button and said hello.

  “Is this Duffy Dombrowski?” the voice said.

  “Yep,” I said.

  “This is Senator Montgomery.” She paused, I think for effect.

  I said nothing.

  “You are my daughter’s counselor and I know what happened last night. I demand to know where she is and what she has done.”

  I thought about it for a second and weighed my options.

  “Do you know who you are dealing with? I am a pit bull and I’ll be on your ass so fast it will make your head spin,” she said.

  “Uh, Senator, in order to speak about any client a proper release of information needs to be signed allowing a counselor to disclose information,” I said. The fact of the matter was that at the start of treatment Christy had signed a release so I could talk to her mother.

  “She signed that goddamned release,” she said.

  “Sometimes clients rescind releases and when they do I can not disclose anything.” I thought about it and even if Christy hadn’t expressly rescinded a release she did in spirit, sort of. The honest fact was I didn’t want to tell this overbearing bitch anything.

  “Don’t give me that bullshit. The election is in five days. Who the hell do you think you are and what bullshit are you trying to pull!” She was yelling.

  I was quiet for a moment. Fucking around with a senator didn’t seem like a good idea. There actually was a signed release to talk to her and she was the kid’s mother. I thought for a second.

  “Goddamn it, do you hear me! What kind of bullshit are you trying to pull!” Her intensity went up another notch.

  I’d probably regret it but I just couldn’t resist.

  “Senator, I’m just a guy making the right choice at the right time.”

  I hung up. I smiled to myself and I gave it a little thought.

  I don’t think I’m going to regret anything.

  * * *

  Bittersweet rescue;

  their time with us is too short

  but our lives enriched.

  —Ginny Tata-Phillips

  Photo: Jasmine from HoP by Annika Francis

  * * *

  Duffy Dog of the Week: Jamie

  by Tom

  Mary and Wayne Calabray are Basset rescue foster parents in Las Vegas and, well, they are failures.

  Failures because instead of fostering the hounds, they adopt them. Their first was Wilma who they adopted at age 11.

  Then one day a friend who was fostering a basset name
d Jamie was going on a cruise and they asked the Calabrays to watch Jamie for a week.

  They failed again. They adopted Jamie.

  “She found the couch immediately and when she figured out how to use the doggie door she used that regularly without a problem and of our four hounds she’s the best on a leash,” Mary said.

  I had to go back and look at Jamie’s pictures.

  Yeah, I thought so, she’s 100 percent blind. Glaucoma-something bassets get a lot.

  It’s not that important to the Calabrays and it certainly isn’t important to Jamie.

  “Once in awhile she bumps into a wall but she shrugs it off and it doesn’t bother her. She’ll bump into one of the other hounds and they’ll get snippy but she shrugs it off and gets on with her day,” Mary said.

  Jamie makes a habit of crawling into laps and falling asleep. She’s happy to meet new people and just never seems to be in a bad mood.

  The Calabrays are active in the Las Vegas Basset Rescue. Vegas leads the country in foreclosures. That means people have to give up their homes and when they do that they often have to give up their dogs.

  So what can we learn from a blind Basset Hound?

  If you run into a few walls, shake it off and get on with your day.

  If you bump into someone by accident and they get mad, shake it off.

  Being positive and happy is possible.

  Cuddling with friends is a good hobby.

  What can we learn from the Calabrays?

  You don’t define someone by a characteristic.

  Hmmm… you mean you don’t have to define a dog by a physical characteristic or anything else that makes them different?

  Huh? Wonder if we could all apply the same principle to people.

  * * *

  While thinking deep thoughts

  I am plagued by a pesky

  fly on my snooter.

  —Ginny Tata-Phillips

  Photo: Maggie by Barbara Vasquez

  * * *

  Here’s a scene from The Vegas Knockout featuring Al’s trip to the airport as Duffy’s service dog. The Vegas Knockout will be released in the spring of 2011

  Al at the Airport

  By Tom

  I drove to the Albany International Airport. Apparently a few flights to Chicago and Baltimore qualify an airport to use the “International” designation because near as I could tell you couldn’t get to another country by flying out of Albany.

  There was a constant jangling sound coming from Al who was seated in the passenger seat of the El Dorado. He found the “Service Dog” vest uncomfortable and was digging at it with his back paw. As Al dug, it kicked up the hound funk he had going on and the interior of the car began to smell like a huge hollow Basset. Perhaps that was his “service” to me. Rudy had written an official medical letter that I had something called a “Generalized Anxiety Disorder” and acute “Schizotypal symptoms.” I didn’t mind Rudy assigning me an official mental illness; after all, he told me I was fuckin’ nuts to my face every time he saw me.

  I had Al’s documentation on me and I felt pretty proud of myself for thinking of such a clever and easy ruse. My pride faded a tad when Al went through the double doors into the terminal and immediately started barking. He was relentless and was going on like a crazy dog. Al had always had the tendency to bark at certain types of people. He barked at people pulling squeaky-wheeled luggage, he barked at people with headphones on and he barked at people who seemed to be wandering aimlessly.

  Once you take into consideration the people fitting those descriptions, who is left in an airport to not bark at?

  We got in the line for Las Vegas with about 200 other people and even though it was early in the day a group of 20-something guys were already drinking and being loud. Al objected to their social insolence and went over and started gnawing on one guy’s knapsack that was on the floor next to the guy’s feet. Al had the corner of it and started to thrash it back and forth like it was small prey whose neck he wanted to break. He let out a low but intense growl while he was at his business.

  “Yo, dude, your fuckin’ dog is, like, out of hand,” the slacker said. He had that perfectly styled messed up hair, a t-shirt that was a size too small, jeans that hung off his ass and flip flops made to look ratty.

  “Sorry,” I said. I didn’t really mean it.

  “Well?” the slacker said with just a hint of attitude that I didn’t really care for. His friends got quiet and looked at me in that semi-aggressive macho guy thing.

  “Well what?” I said.

  “Dude, make him stop or I’ll have to,” Slacker said and bobbed his head.

  I hate airports and they make me tense. Just the same, I kind of figured knocking someone out in one probably would upset the TSA or something so I decided to refrain from doing anything. I just wanted to get on a plane and head to Vegas.

  Unfortunately, my anxiety-calming service dog was making a little bit of a scene. Over the years I’ve learned that he can sense vocal tone shifts and the slacker just gave him one. Al stopped working on the corner of the knapsack but for its owner it came a few seconds late. There was a new a two-inch hole in the corner of the bag.

  “Dude, that fuckin’ dog ruined my gear!” Slacker said. He took a step toward Al with his legged cocked to deliver a kick to Al’s midsection. A few years back a biker laid into Al like that and he never forgot it and he freaked if he thought someone was going to give him the boot.

  Al moved quickly and pounced on the guy’s stationary leg, biting him hard on his exposed big toe. The guy went down ass-over-tea-kettle, grabbing his wounded digit instinctively, which was unfortunate because it twisted his body in a weird way and he wound up cracking the side of his head on the tile.

  Al started going rip shit with the barking, probably out of pride for scoring a knock down. The rest of the slackers started making noise and doing that guy thing that non-fight guys do when they think they’re supposed to fight but don’t really want to. That is, they start talking loud and stupid and hunching their shoulders and breathing hard. I stood there without moving but with my senses sharpened just a bit.

  “That’s fucked up, man,” one of the astute slackers observed. Another gave me a glare that I’m sure he studied from his Vin Diesel Net Flix rentals.

  Al had returned to the bag and started rummaging through when the airport TSA cops showed up. They weren’t really sure how to address the issue because I’m guessing their training on Basset Hound service dog management was only a small part of their coursework. Al made their focus a whole lot easier, however when he pulled out a nickel bag of pot from the bag hidden in a case for eyeglasses.

  The first cop there, a young muscular black guy who took himself very seriously said:

  “Who is the owner of this piece of luggage?”

  No one said anything. So I spoke.

  “Sir, my medical service dog has had training in drug detection. He was coincidently put in close proximity to that bag and he instinctively pursued what he sensed.” I felt so official.

  The black cop reached down and read the Southwest paper nametag that had just been written and placed on the knapsack. The other cop was a tall thin white guy with a shaved head and a perfectly honed intense look. I guessed you got intense from inspecting shampoo bottles that held more than 3.5 ounces of liquid.

  “Are you Owen Michelin?” the black cop asked and looked down at the guy who was rubbing his head. It wasn’t lost on me that his last name was the same as my boss’s but Michelin isn’t the strangest name.

  “Don’t I have, like, you know, the right to remain silent, or something?” my new friend Owen said. His buddies had very worried looks on their faces.

  “Clearly you have the right to be an idiot, don’t compound that by adding asshole to it,” the black cop said. Michelin frowned and shook his head.

  “I will need to see the four of you in the TSA detainment room immediately. You will not be making this flight and I doubt you will be t
raveling at all today. You will need to bring your bags,” the black cop said.

  “Uh, officer, can’t something you know, be worked out?” one of the other slackers said as he said it he slid a twenty in and out of a small pocket in his t-shirt.

  That’s right, I said a twenty.

  During all this Al had fallen asleep on the tile floor and had rolled over on his back. The black cop looked over at him.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he said. He was talking to me.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Any chance this dog was once in the FOI?” The FOI stood for the Fruit of Islam, which was the security arm of the Nation of Islam.

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact—” he didn’t let me finish.

  “AK?”

  With that, Al rolled over, woke up and did that turbo Basset thing where he shakes and twists and flings his drool all over the place.

  “AK baby, AK baby!” the black cop said.

  Al’s tail went crazy and he started barking. The white cop even smiled.