He was writing Peter’s license number down in his notebook as Mingus jumped into the cab of the truck.
As Peter climbed in after him, the dog slurped him in the face. His breath smelled like hamburgers. The rest of him smelled like ten gallons of hot sauce at the city dump.
Peter shook his head. “Mingus, you are a bad goddamn dog. Now I’m never going to get my shower.”
—
The cold November wind came through the broken window as he drove. He kept one eye on his mirrors, hoping to see a black Ford SUV. But no luck.
He had some time before his meeting with Skinner. He needed to get showered and changed if he wanted the guy to talk to him. And Dinah, he had to talk to Dinah.
He pulled out his phone and called the number she’d given him, which was the nurse’s station on her floor. It took them five minutes to get her to the phone.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “Can we meet after your shift?”
“That’s fine with me,” she said. “I’ll be home about six.”
He wanted to ask if he could use her shower. Maybe run a load of laundry through the wash. But he’d just spent an hour in the library, his head was aching, and bathrooms were definitely indoors. He was used to splashing himself in a glacial stream under the vast dome of the sky. The last time he’d showered was at that motel, which hadn’t gone well. He didn’t ask.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you at six.”
He broke the connection and cruised, watching the traffic. Waiting for the black Ford. Feeling the cold wind on his face. He caught sight of his face in the rearview, the bruise turning truly interesting colors now. Purple, yellow, green. He sure looked like a solid citizen.
He passed an old Pathfinder with a crumpled front passenger side, the glass missing, plastic sheeting taped up in its place. That was a great look. No bullet holes, though. You needed bullet holes for the truly custom effect.
Peter knew he should be making some kind of plan. Some kind of plan for his life. Find some new glass for his truck. That wouldn’t be easy, with a forty-year-old truck. Then fix the sheet metal, fix whatever other damage the bullets had done to the truck he’d taken hundreds of hours to restore. Figure out what to do next. With the rest of his life.
After he figured out Jimmy, he told himself.
After he saved Dinah and the boys.
After that, he’d do the next thing, whatever it was.
The bruise would heal itself in time. A shower and a change of clothes would make all the difference. Maybe he could shower at the Y.
Mingus leaned up against him, tongue hanging, stinking up the cab. Weren’t dogs supposed to have a fantastic sense of smell? Peter didn’t know how the animal could stand himself.
Maybe the stink was like canine cologne. And all the bitches thought Mingus smelled like an investment banker.
He passed a car wash and had an idea. He circled around and parked facing out, mostly hidden from the street, with a straight line to the exit.
It was a self-serve place. Eight chrome washing bays, each with a coin-op control and a spray wand. But you could wash more than a truck in a place like that.
Peter plugged in a dozen quarters and turned the setting to plain warm water.
“C’mere, Mingus.”
He got a good grip on the dog’s rope collar and dragged him over. It wasn’t easy to drag a hundred-and-fifty-pound dog somewhere he didn’t want to go. But Peter made it happen, straddled the dog, grabbed the spray wand, dialed down the pressure to the lowest level, and got to work, using his hand to minimize the force of the water.
It wasn’t a lot of fun.
When Mingus got wet, the stink got worse. As if the water somehow rehydrated the stench.
Shit and death and pepper spray mixed with a deep animal funk, worse than anything Peter had ever smelled. It was unspeakable.
Peter tried to breathe through his mouth.
Mingus, of course, couldn’t care less about the smell. It was the bath he didn’t like. He whined and flattened his ears and hunkered down close to the pavement while Peter worked his way around, closing his pitiful dog eyes when the water got close to his face. When the time came to wash his chest and belly, Peter had to roll him over by main force, kneeling on him again and talking in the same calm voice as he had under the porch, when the dog had been trying to rip off his face. Mingus whined louder.
Peter didn’t blame him. The day hadn’t warmed up any, and having some guy you just met wash your belly was bad for a tough dog’s image.