Not this again.
Hey! Don't drop me, Big Alpha! Uh-oh. Here comes that hard little pebble thing shoved into a tiny piece of cheese … do you think I'm stupid? That I really believe this is some sort of treat? Ack! And who told you that squishing my throat is going to help it go down any easier?
Fine. I swallowed it. Hope you're satisfied.
"Nice going, pal."
Thomas studied the dog for a moment and frowned. They'd just finished another five-minute round of relaxation exercises, but damned if he could tell if the little mutant was relaxing any. All he knew was that his knees hurt like hell and it was Emma Jenkins's fault—she said he had to kneel while working with Hairy because the dog was intimidated by his size.
Thomas sighed and studied the ugly thing. Sure, dogs were basically stupid, but he had to admit that Hairy seemed to get the general drift of the exercises. He'd held the tiny piece of Beggin' Strip behind his back, said, "Hairy, sit!" and, "Hairy, look!" then moved the treat next to his eye and Hairy made eye contact and sat still just like he was supposed to. Then he got the treat. And this was supposed to relax him.
What are you staring at, Big Alpha? It makes me yawn. That's what I do when I'm unsure about things. That and pee. But I'm trying. I really am.
Wait. This is new. Your hands—which are twice the size of Slick's, by the way—are petting me. Softly. It feels good on my skin. Warm and smooth and nice and my tail's wagging because that's what I do when I'm happy.
"All right, Hairy. We've got to have a little man-to-man chat."
Your eyes are a little nicer, too, but I wish you'd smile. I'd feel better about hanging out here in thin air if you'd just smile.
"I got a bunch of guys coming over to play cards tonight and I don't think you're exactly their kind of dog, know what I'm saying?"
I guess it's back to the cave.
"You'll be safe in your crate. We might get a little loud, but we won't hurt you. I'll take you out for a walk when they leave. Okay, buddy?"
Yeah, okay. I don't mind the cave. At least you put a fluffy blanket in here. I guess you're trying to be nice. I guess you're not like the bad man who hurt Slick. I try not to think about my owner much, because it makes me lonely and scared and I start shaking more, which makes me pee.
Thomas closed the door to the crate, draped an old pillowcase over the top, and headed to the entertainment center.
Here comes that strange, sad music again—nothing like the real music Slick and I love so much, the kind that makes us feel like dancing!
I miss him. I miss my sparkling red suit with the matching collar. I miss dancing. I wonder when I'll get to see Soft Hands again.
She felt so nice to snuggle up with.
* * *
"Just don't ever get married or we won't have anywhere to play cards. Any microbrews left in the fridge?"
Thomas peered through the gray-blue cigar fog that hung over the dining room table and narrowed his eyes at Vince Stephano. "I'm never getting married and I'll never run out of good beer on poker night," he said impatiently. "You gonna ante up or just sit there and bitch like you do at the office … sir?"
Stephano grunted, ignoring the subdued snickers from around the table. The Maryland State Police captain clenched his Robusto in his teeth and said, "I'll see you and raise you ten. Prepare to suffer horribly, my friend."
Thomas let the remark slide, dropping his gaze nonchalantly to the three queens burning a hole through his palm.
Rollo folded. Chick called, but didn't look happy about it. Then Manny went out quietly, and Paulie called it quits with his usual drama, slapping his cards down on the bare wood surface with a flourish of obscenities and sighs.
"Let's see it, pretty boy," Stephano said, jutting out his cigar in challenge as he glared at Thomas.
"You might want to use protective eyewear, boss." Thomas laid down the three lovely ladies with agonizing slowness, the queen of hearts on top.
"You suck, Tobin." Stephano threw down three sevens.
"Shit." Chick offered up a pair of fives.
As he reached out for the mound of poker chips with both hands, Thomas reveled in the feel of the tinkling, clicking bounty. Short of puffing a fine Cuban or holding a beautiful naked woman, this had to be life's finest physical sensation. It was a piece of pure triumph—a moment of unadulterated whoop-ass.
And by God, he'd had few enough of those lately.
"Your music selection is giving me a migraine, Tobin." Chick's announcement came in his customary West Virginia twang. "Haven't you got any normal music—like Garth or Shania or something?"
"My house, my tunes," Thomas said, stacking his chips in neat, color-coded piles. "Besides, Coltrane is food for the soul. You want to listen to hillbilly drivel, then hold poker night at your place."
Chick shook his head. "Right. That would be a ripsnortin' good time, I'm sure." He took a swig of beer. "I'm lucky just to escape the spouse and spawn one night a month to come here."
"I hear you, man," Rollo said, chuckling. "If we did this at my place, we'd be listening to Barney's Greatest Hits."
"Thomas's music taste is eclectic," Manny offered.
"It sucks," Paulie said.
"What do you expect from four cops, a lawyer, and a urologist? We never agree on jackshit," Rollo said.
Thomas shuffled the deck and called for five-card stud. "You know, gentlemen, there's really only two kinds of music in the world."
"Christ, here we go," Stephano muttered, rolling his eyes.
"Good music and bad music," Thomas continued, taking a slow, sensual puff of his cigar and placing it in an ashtray to his left. He began to deal. "The majority of popular music today is total crap—the fast food of song—no nourishment, no soul, no meaning, no art. It's just a way to funnel more money to the one or two remaining international media conglomerates and pay for the Backstreet Boys to go to rehab."
Stephano groaned and got up from the table. "Beer run. Anybody want anything?"
"I'll help," Chick offered.
Paulie stood up and stretched. "I'm going to hit the john."
"Me, too," Manny said, following him.
Rollo shook his head slowly and chuckled, watching his best friend and brother-in-law deal the cards to empty chairs. "You sure know how to clear a room lately, man."
Rollo studied Thomas. He watched him finish the deal and take another puff, squinting in concentration as he spun the cigar between long fingers.
Rollo wouldn't come right out and say anything, but the truth was, Thomas worried the hell out of him.
Thomas had been through so much this last year, and he'd made it through in one piece. But he'd changed. Shut down. And he and Pam were really starting to wonder if he'd ever snap out of it.
"How are the boys?" Thomas asked.
"Great. They miss you."
Thomas nodded silently.
True, Thomas had never been the world's most outgoing guy. Even in college he'd been kind of quiet, but still managed to crack everyone up with his dead-on, dry observations. The girls didn't seem to mind that he was reserved. It must have added to his mystique, because females were always hanging around the fraternity house or the rugby pitch just to get a peek at him.
The guys at Theta Chi soon decided Thomas was like the house bug light, luring girls in droves, and started calling him "Zapper." Thomas thought it was funny back then. Not anymore. He didn't think anything was funny anymore.
"Pam still working part-time?" Thomas asked.
"Yep. Three half-days a week."
Just look at him—he'd basically gone into hiding. If it weren't for poker night, rugby, and his medical checkups, Rollo would never even see him. No matter how many times Pam invited him over to the house he always said he had to work.
That was a big part of what put him in such a rotten state of mind—Thomas's work. The sick mothers he met every day just gave him an excuse to keep his distance from people. Thomas used to talk about getting out of law en
forcement and teaching and coaching rugby instead, but the last time Rollo tried to bring it up, Thomas changed the subject.
And God—the day he finally got the guts to suggest Thomas look into treatment for depression, he'd nearly been beheaded.
Rollo didn't know how to talk to him anymore. It was as if that day in his office six months ago had changed everything between the two men. The wall Thomas had erected since then made Rollo feel like a stranger.
Rollo saw Thomas giving him the eye through a puff of cigar smoke and tried to smile. "Want another beer, T?"
"No. I'm good."
Thomas had taken the news about his injury very hard, but what man wouldn't? Rollo would never forget sitting at his desk across from Thomas and Nina, seeing the hopeful look on their faces, just before he dropped the bomb on them.
Sure, other couples had broken up in his office before, but this was the worst he'd ever witnessed. He explained the test results and waited for someone to say something, but they just sat there, marinating in the tension for several long moments. Then it happened—Nina let it rip right there in front of him—the list of everything Thomas had done wrong in the last four years. She told him it was over, and headed for the door.
For as long as he'd known Nina, Rollo had always thought of her as private and aloof. Apparently, she'd been saving up for one humdinger of a public display.
Thomas sat perfectly still through the whole thing. His face was cold and expressionless but his knuckles were white around the chair arms. He flinched when Nina slammed the door behind her.
Thomas was Rollo's patient, but he was also the best friend he'd ever had, and the only thing he could think to say was, "I'm so sorry, man."
But really, what else could he have said?
And since then, it seemed Thomas only wanted to work harder or stay home and listen to John Coltrane and Charlie Parker and get himself even more depressed. He hadn't had a date in six months. He didn't want to go out drinking with the rest of the ruggers after a match. He didn't want to talk about any of it. Not even to Pam.
Rollo let his eyes travel to the darkened living room, to the little cage he knew was hidden behind a big potted plant. At least Thomas now had that little ugly dog to keep him company. He and Pam thought that was a real positive sign.
Thomas was still giving him the eye.
Rollo smiled brightly.
"You can report to Pam that I'm fine—eating my vegetables, sleeping well, bathing daily, taking my vitamins."
Rollo shrugged, as if that wasn't exactly what he planned to do. He decided to change the subject. "So does the shipment meet with your approval?"
Thomas stared at the cigar balanced between his fingers and grinned.
The Cohiba Corona Especiale was more than a cigar—it was a work of art, a silken extravagance, a thing of beauty. He took a puff, savoring the delicate notes of honeyed tobacco, warm cocoa, and roasted nuts on the back of his tongue, tasting the heat with his brain, his eyeballs, his very soul, glorying in the pleasure of his one and only illicit vice.
Yes, it met with his approval, unlike most everything else in his life, and Thomas closed his eyes, thanking God once more that Rollo had a patient who was an official in the U.S. Customs Agency.
"It's mighty fine, Rollo. Stupendous. Send along my heartfelt thanks."
Rollo took a puff of his own. "Always do."
The men smiled at each other in conspiracy and Thomas took comfort in that brief exchange. Sure, things could be better, but he still had an occasional cigar. He had Rollo and Pam and his nephews. He had work and rugby. He supposed it was enough.
It would have to be.
"Hey, what the hell is that horrible sound?" Chick frowned and cocked his head as he returned to his seat. "Hear it? It's like a cat puking up a hair ball."
"It's called jazz," Stephano muttered.
"No. Seriously. There it is again—"
Thomas jumped up, spun around, and peered into the dimly lit living room. Oh, great. He thought he could get away with keeping Hairy under wraps, but it looked like the jig was up. He jogged to the small pet crate in the corner. He yanked away the ficus tree, creating a shower of small, crisp leaves, then whipped off the old pillowcase.
Hairy was hacking his brains out. He was wheezing, shaking, staring up at him through the metal bars with bulging, frightened eyes. When he sucked in air, Thomas could see his throat collapse with the battle for oxygen.
"Jesus!" He yanked open the latch and reached for him.
"What the hell is that?" Stephano's mouth fell open in disbelief.
"It's a dog," Rollo whispered to the men now gathered in closely. "Thomas's dog."
Thomas wheeled around. "He is not my damn dog, all right, Rollo? How many times do I have to tell you I'm just keeping him until I can find a home for him?"
"A dog? Are you sure?" Manny seemed genuinely perplexed.
"Is he wearing a sweater?" Chick's words came out in a shocked whisper.
Everyone leaned in closer and felt free to comment. "That's the ugliest thing I've ever seen."
"It looks like a fetal pig."
"A sewer rat."
"An alien."
"Whatever it is, it's choking to death."
"Damn! It's the cigar smoke!" Thomas ran to the foyer and threw open the front door, taking Hairy into the September night air. He sat on the front stoop, his long legs nearly folded under his chin as he examined the dog.
Hairy continued to cough. His breathing steadied but the wheezing remained.
"Should we call the vet?" Rollo asked.
"Try Terminix," Stephano said, which cleared the way for guffaws all around.
"Shut up so I can listen to him breathe, would you?" Thomas swung his head around and he glared up at his friends.
"Maybe we should call it a night," Manny said. "We've got that early meeting tomorrow and I'm wiped. Let's go in and settle up."
Rollo patted Thomas on the shoulder. "I'll turn off the air conditioning and open the windows. I'll collect for you."
Thomas nodded. "Turn on the exhaust fan in the kitchen, too, would you, man? Thanks."
When the front door shut behind him, Thomas sighed and peered down into Hairy's pointy face. For a moment it seemed as if a look of gratitude passed through the animal's eyes. Then, in the darkness, Thomas thought for sure that Hairy smiled at him. He'd obviously had a few too many beers.
At least the little mutant was still alive, which was a good thing because he'd just spent close to six hundred dollars on medical care and supplies.
"You are one freakin' high-maintenance dog," Thomas muttered.
Then Hairy began squirming in a way that signaled the onset of urination. Thomas unfolded his body from the stoop and released Hairy in the small patch of grass in front of his townhouse. The mutant squatted like a girl the way he always did and took care of business, sniffed around the rhododendrons, then toddled over to Thomas's feet and sat, staring up in adoration to his new master's face.
He was still wheezing.
* * *
The tree frogs and crickets were especially loud that night. Emma listened to the soft creak of the front porch rocker as it kept time with the twirling, buzzing, beeping melody that washed over her damp skin.
She couldn't sleep, though she knew she needed the rest. She wondered if she sometimes did this on purpose, just to have an excuse to come downstairs in her nightgown and bare feet and sit on the porch in the dark—alone. It was peaceful here. The hay fields of southern Carroll County smelled so ripe and clean, just the way they had when she was a girl. The stars blinked off and on behind wispy night clouds.
This was her private world. At night, she could think. She could make her wishes. She could convince herself that there was still a chance they'd come true.
Ray's hard head nudged insistently at Emma's knee, and she scratched the soft spot behind the old guy's ear. She listened to his low growl of pleasure and it made her smile. She wished she could be mor
e like Ray—he always seemed so glad for what he had instead of worrying about what he didn't have. Maybe that was the difference between dogs and human beings right there, in a nutshell.
Emma plopped her bare feet up on the wide, smooth porch railing and leaned back in the rocker. With her free hand, she twisted her long hair up into a knot. A hot whisper of humid air brushed up the back of her neck and under the backs of her thighs. It tickled. It teased.
She thought of Thomas Tobin again and laughed at herself.
Velvet was so right—it wasn't natural for a woman her age to be alone. She needed a man. Soon. And if she was fantasizing about Robot Boy again, she knew she'd reached a whole new level of desperation.
As she did nearly every night, Emma wondered why it was that a decent-looking, educated, fun-loving, and kind woman couldn't find a normal man.
Was it her imagination, or were they in short supply here in the Baltimore-Washington metropolitan area?
Was it her imagination, or was it really true that with each passing month the odds got less good and the goods got more odd?
She didn't hate bars—she liked going out every once in a while with a group of women friends to hoot it up.
What she hated was the desperate trolling, the scoping, the hunt associated with the human mating ritual. She felt hollow. She felt on display. And no matter where they went, she was always sure she had the biggest butt on the dance floor.
As a scientist, Emma knew what it was really all about—a search for quality chromosomes to perpetuate her genetic line.
As a woman, she knew it was so much more than that. She was looking for spark. Passion. She was looking for love. It was slightly embarrassing to admit, but Emma wanted to be swept off her feet, just once before she died. She wanted to know what it felt like to be pursued, treasured, spoiled! Was that so outrageous?
Just once before she died, that's all.
It sure hadn't happened that way with Aaron. Emma had come to see her thirteen-year relationship with Aaron for what it was: a pact based on intellectual compatibility and physical familiarity—with a healthy dose of dysfunction thrown in for excitement. They'd been lovers, husband and wife, and business partners.
Then one day, it finally dawned on her. She finally got it through her head that she might have the skills to fix some things for some animals and humans, but she would never be able to fix Aaron Kramer.