“Naw, man, that’s not me,” said the scarred man, taking a step back. “I’m just a friend of the lady lives here.”
Peter kept talking as he stood and walked to the tree. “I’ll tell you, that dog’s been nothing but trouble. I’ll be glad when it’s gone.” The dog still shied away from him but no longer ran to the end of its leash. “Creeps me out,” said Peter, “that animal staring at me all day.” He untied the rope and held it out to the man. “You wouldn’t believe what I had to do to get that stick in there.” The dog stood behind the protection of Peter’s legs, peering out at the man and growling louder.
It hadn’t growled at young Charlie or his brother when they left for school.
It hadn’t growled when Peter took it for a walk.
All morning, it had watched people walking down the street, and it hadn’t growled at any of them.
The scarred man took another step back, unbuttoning his leather coat, saying, “I told you, that’s not my fuckin’ dog.” The scars flushed pink on his face as he pulled his coat open and put his hand on the butt of the shiny chrome automatic pistol tucked into the front of his pants. “Now tie that ugly motherfucker up again before I got to do something.”
The pistol was smaller, maybe a .32, and sized for concealment. Big Jimmy Johnson, artist of the swivel-mounted .50, would have called it a girlie gun. But it would still put a hole in you.
Clearly this guy was not worried about the cops. The newer gun laws sometimes made it hard to distinguish between armed thugs and citizens exercising their rights, but Peter had some idea which of the two he was talking to.
“Okay, sure,” said Peter, nodding. “Hey, it’s not your dog.” He went to tie it up again.
The scarred man made a show of closing his coat and adjusting it on his shoulders. Not what Peter would have done. It just made the gun harder for the man to get at.
“So. Where’d you find that dog, Mister Fixit Man?”
The tone always changed when someone showed a weapon, thought Peter. This was no longer a friendly conversation. The Army .45 was inside Peter’s tool bag, three steps away. But taking it out wouldn’t get him any new information.
“It was under the old porch,” said Peter, watching the scarred man from the corner of his eye. “I’m just doing some work on the house. I guess the husband died.”
The man shook his head. “Damn shame,” he said without any feeling at all. He pointed at the porch with his chin. “How much you charge for this? Must be expensive, huh?”
Now we’re getting to it, thought Peter. “No charge,” he said. “U.S. Marine Corps is picking up the tab. Death benefit.”
“No shit?” said the man. “I always thought the lady was rich.”
“Can’t tell by me,” Peter said. “She didn’t even offer me a glass of water.”
“You find anything else under there?” asked the man.
“Sure,” said Peter. “Scrap lumber, garbage, old carpet. It’s all on the curb.”
“That all? Nothing worth anything?”
“In this neighborhood?” Peter laughed. “Most of these people are just trying to stay ahead of their bills. They’re not hiding gold bars under the front porch. Especially not with this ugly dog living there.”
“No shit?” said the man. “Dog was living there? Under the porch? Not no owner?”
“Yeah,” said Peter. “Eating all the neighborhood cats. They were afraid it was going to start on the kids. What’d you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” said the man. “And I wasn’t here. You never saw me. Understand?” He patted the coat at his waistband, where the chrome .32 menaced his nuts.
“Sure,” said Peter. “I have to get back to work. I need to get on to my next project.”
“You just fuckin’ do that,” said the scarred man.
And he climbed into the big black SUV and left.
The man hadn’t told Peter much. But Peter had learned a few things anyway.
A man with a gun was watching the house.
A man who knew about the money. Probably knew about the plastic explosive. But didn’t know where they might be.
And the dog didn’t like him.
It would be interesting to see where this thing went next.
6
The porch floor was laid and Peter was packing up his tools when Dinah came home from work, right on time.
Peter got the feeling she was the kind of woman who was always on time. Had her bills in a little accordion folder, kept her checkbook balanced, and flossed her teeth every night. But not uptight about it. Just organized. Knew what she wanted. Working to make it happen.
She parked her old Toyota on the street and went up the front steps with her enormous handbag, bouncing a little on her toes, testing the strength of the deck. She peered at the skirting, at the dog-proof padlock on the sturdy new hatch cover.
She looked at Peter. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”
“Please,” he said. “Call me Peter. Have you changed your mind about the money?”