“It’s not your house, big guy. If you’re scared of dogs, stay at home.”
His tight, square face looked ugly. “I could have you brought in for assault, Warshawski.”
“You could, but you won’t. You’re too chicken to take on someone your own size.” I muscled my way past him and started a dispiriting search for a piece of paper with Mrs. Frizell’s son’s name on it. It took me only half an hour to realize I could call directory assistance in San Francisco—how many Frizells could there be? Six, as it turned out, with a couple of different spellings. The fourth one I reached, Byron, was her son. Tepid would be a strong description for his response to the news about his mother.
“You’ve got her to a hospital? Good, good. Thanks for taking the time to call.”
“You want to know what hospital?”
“What? Oh, might as well. Look, I’m in the middle of something right now—Sharansky, did you say your name was? Why don’t I call you in the morning.”
“Warshawski.” I started to spell it but he’d broken the connection.
Todd waited around until Byron cut me off. “So what’s he going to do?”
“He’s not catching the first plane out. Mrs. Hellstrom will look after the dogs. Why don’t the rest of us just go home and give it a rest.”
Like Mrs. Hellstrom, I was anxious to change my clothes. Carol had already gone while I was trying the second Frizell. Mr. Contreras had wandered out to the kitchen to put out fresh food and water for the dogs. He was anxious to get back to Peppy, but was too chivalrous to leave me alone here.
“You think they’ll be okay, doll?”
“I think they’ll be fine,” I said firmly. I was damned if he’d saddle me with five more dogs to look after.
As I shut up the house we could hear them whining and scratching at the front door.
Chapter 7 - Signing Up a New Client
The next morning, before leaving for work, I put two hours into cleaning and polishing my apartment. Pichea’s remark last night had flicked me on the raw. Not about finding myself alone at eighty-five—I could envision worse fates—but finding myself like Mrs. Frizell: my stacks of newspaper and dustballs crumbling into lung-choking dirt; so cantankerous that the neighbors didn’t want to call even when they thought I might be ill.
I baled a month’s worth of newspapers in twine and set them by the front door to drop at the recycling center. I polished the piano and the coffee table until they would have met even Gabriella’s high standard, washed the dishes piled on the sink and kitchen table, threw out all the moldy food in the refrigerator. That left me with a choice of peanut butter or canned minestrone for supper, but maybe I could squeeze in an hour at the grocery on my way home.
I skipped my run and took the el downtown. The work I’d planned for the day would take me to a variety of government offices scattered around the Loop; the car would only get in my way. By four I was able to call Daraugh Graham to report on Clint Moss. He really was anxious for information: his secretary had word to interrupt the meeting he was in to receive my report.
When Daraugh learned Moss had invented his class standing in the University of Chicago’s MBA program, he demanded that I go to Pittsburgh to make sure he hadn’t manufactured his previous work history. I didn’t want to do it, but my payments on the Trans Am meant keeping my good customers happy. I agreed to catch an early flight the next day—not at seven, as Daraugh ordered, but eight, which meant getting out of bed at six. That seemed like enough of a sacrifice to me.
I stopped at Mrs. Hellstrom’s on the way home to see how she was making out with Mrs. Frizell’s dogs. She seemed a little flustered; she was trying to get dinner for her grandchildren and didn’t see how she could manage to look after the dogs at the same time.
“I’m going out of town in the morning, but when I get back on Friday I’ll give you a hand,” I heard myself saying. “If you take care of them in the morning I’ll feed them and walk them in the afternoon.”
“Oh, would you? That would be such a relief. Mrs. Frizell is so peculiar, you wouldn’t think she’d care, but we could steal everything she has in the house—not that there’s anything in there I want, mind you—and she wouldn’t notice. But if we didn’t feed her precious poochies she’d probably sue us. It just seems like so much work.”
She gave me the keys we’d found buried in the living room the night before, confident I planned to start my evening shift at once. “Just put the keys through my mail slot when you’re done. I’ll get duplicates made while you’re away and put them in your mailbox. No, maybe I should give them to that nice man that lives downstairs from you. He seems reliable, and I hate to leave someone’s house keys lying around.”