“You sure you want to do that? This dog tried to kill me once.”
Miss Rosetta ignored him. The knife was very sharp. She was already unwinding the rope. The dog dropped the chewed length of handrail on the cracked linoleum with a surprising delicacy, licked his chops experimentally, then put his paws up on the woman’s lap and licked her chin.
“Mingus, behave yourself,” she said, rapping him on the nose.
When he slurped her right ear, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around his neck, giggling like a schoolgirl. “Dog, you ain’t even bought me dinner.”
Eventually the dog came to Peter and nosed his hands.
Peter pushed the nose away.
The dog came back.
Peter pushed him away again.
When the dog returned a third time, he moved so fast that he had Peter’s wrist between his jaws before Peter knew he had done it.
The pressure of the teeth was perfectly calibrated. The hardest grip possible without quite puncturing the skin. The hot, wet tongue like a rare steak fresh from the pan. The wolfish eyes locked on his face.
The dog wasn’t letting go.
Peter sighed. “Okay, Mingus,” he said, and rubbed the massive head with his free hand. The stink rose up like a poison cloud. He really had to wash this damn dog. “You win. I’m yours.”
The dog released his wrist and licked up his arm to the inside of his elbow. Peter stood and rinsed a cereal bowl, filled it with water, and set it on the floor. The dog drank noisily.
As if on cue, Miss Rosetta reached for the Early Times again, this time filling half the glass and pouring it down her throat without seeming to swallow. He’d better get some answers before she fell off her chair.
Peter said, “Ma’am, how do you know this dog?”
“Poor Mingus,” she said. She didn’t seem drunk at all. Maybe she was like one of those experimental cars that ran on alcohol. Just topping up her tank. She looked at Peter hard. “Where’d you find him?”
“Hiding under a porch a couple miles from here. The family was afraid he was going to hurt one of the kids. I think he was just hungry.”
On cue, the dog looked up, long tongue hanging out, dripping water on the linoleum. “Don’t look at me, Mingus,” she said. “I ain’t feeding you. That Jim might have something upstairs, if the rats ain’t got it.”
“Miss Rosetta,” said Peter. “How do you know the dog?”
But he already knew.
She rested her chin on her hand, her elbow on the table. “My tenant,” she said dreamily. “Lives upstairs. Mingus’s his dog. Been gone awhile. Went on a trip, took the dog with him. Paid rent three months in advance, cash money. Can you beat that?”
Cash money. “What’s your tenant’s name?”
“Jim,” she said. “Handsome Jim. Big, tall man.” The bourbon was catching up. Her speech was still clear, but her face was starting to look a little blurred. “Real sweetheart, that boy. Was a time I’da showed him something. . . .” Her voice crackled and faded, a radio losing reception.
Every Marine knows not to drink on an empty stomach. “Miss Rosetta? Can I make you some dinner?”
She blinked at him slowly. Then smacked her lips, her head sinking down toward the table and onto her folded arms. After a minute, she started snoring. Peter looked in the fridge. Bread, eggs, hamburger. TV dinners in the freezer. She’d be okay.
She seemed to have some practice at this.
The static was flaring in the small cluttered space. Peter endured the tightness in his chest long enough to neaten the kitchen and wash the dishes, which took some scrubbing. Making sure the door locked behind him, he left with Mingus bounding ahead.
11
The entrance to the upstairs apartment was at the side of Miss Rosetta’s duplex. The lamp outside was dark, so trying Jimmy’s keys in the lock was difficult until Peter pulled out his penlight.
After a little jiggling, the tarnished old lock turned just fine.
The steps were steep and narrow and complained underfoot. He pushed down the cramped, jittery feeling and climbed.
The dog galloped up ahead of him.
—
At the top, two doors. The original upper apartment was subdivided into two smaller units. The dog nosed at the right-hand door. Peter tried his keys again. The latch opened without fuss, as if waiting to be unlocked.
The white static rose up. One deep breath after another. He told himself he’d be out of there in ten minutes.
Jimmy had lived in one room tucked into the eaves at the back of the house. The cracked plaster ceiling angled down to the floor, following the rafters. A rag rug covered most of the battered pine floor. The small bed was neatly made with a green wool Army surplus blanket. Jimmy’s feet must have hung off the end.