Sun-Dogs

Chapter 4

“Speaking of which,” I indicated the clock on the wall. “Isn’t it about that time?”

“Is it?” Bennet looked at the big IBM. “Well—so it is.” And to Cecilia: “Well. Reckon that’s why I don’t currently have a lady friend. Married to duty, as they say.”

“Aww. Well, break a leg,” she said.

“Yep ...” He exhaled loudly. “My lady is Sandy Chain.”

“Bennet.”

And we went—as Cecilia refused to run my card (as usual) and the radio blared (with Mollie talking about a bold new era in human achievement and the imminent return of Steve Dannon’s Daedalus Seven spacecraft) and the door chimed and the wind—which had picked up markedly, alarmingly, inexplicably—met our faces.

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“Chief Townsend! Hey, wait!”

I turned to see Vicki from Blevins Pharmacy rushing up the sidewalk.

“Am I glad to see you!” She paused to catch her breath, the hair whipping and lashing her face—before extending a white bag. “Tell me you’ll deliver this to Wilber Cole—out in Mirabeau Park—like, yesterday, please? Before he eats anything?”

I took the bag and looked at her. “Now you know that when you ask like that I can’t help but to comply.” I peeked inside the sack. “I’m not even going to ask.”

“One in the morning—before breakfast, and one at night, just before dinner.” She jumped as a garbage can toppled and papers cycloned. “Before meals, okay? Don’t forget.”

“It’ll be done—I was going out there anyway. Go on, git.”

She paused, looking suddenly abashed. “Oh, Chief—”

“It’s all right,” I watched as the power lines began to waver—ominously, precariously. “Vicki, don’t make me—”

And she went; as Bennet and I crossed the street to the station and went up to its double doors—where he paused, abruptly. “Look, Archie. Maybe we should—”

“Aw, no. I won’t hear of it. Now you’ve been looking forward to this all week. So just go in there and knock ‘em dead—and I’ll see you on the other side.”

“Aw, Arch, but what if—”

“No, no. Everything out here is gonna to be fine.” I nodded once, twice. “Go on. Make us proud.”

He moved to go in but hesitated. “You don’t even have your service revolver; now when are you going to get back on the horse, anyway? I mean, I’m sorry, Arch, but someone has to say it. It’s time for you to snap out of it.”

I scanned the trees, which were leaning in the wind, and the brownstone buildings, whose screens rattled. “Just a storm. Don’t need a revolver for that.”

“Yeah, well. You’d think better if, say, the Dusty Moths—”

“Who aren’t going to be riding around in a storm; I can guarantee it. Now go on.”

And he went on, shaking his balding head, which shined like his badge, slamming the door behind him—after which I heard a rap on the glass above and looked up; saw Mollie holding a sign against one of the second-story windows, a sign which read, simply: NIGHTCAP AT MIDNIGHT JOE’S?

At which I just smiled and gave her a thumbs up.

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“Yeah, well, sure, I try to stay sharp. And that means a lot of time at the range—lot of time sighting paper targets. (laughter) I mean, I’m no Jingo Williams—you ever seen him? Jingo Williams? On TV, I mean? Him and that Oriental gal? Amazing. Amazing shootist. I saw him do a trick once where he—”

I switched off the ignition and sighed, rubbed the bridge of my nose. ‘Oriental.’ I got out and shut the door.

Oreo was already there, barking and slavering, his white paws on the fence. Greeting me as he greeted everyone, with a hail of yaps and spit.

I shook him by a jowl. “Whoos a good boy? Whoos a good boy?”

“Not that dog,” snapped Wilber, drawing my attention (to the porch, yes, but also to the fact that he was wearing nothing but saggy undershorts and a wifebeater). “Not one little bit. Bugger chewed up my lawn gnome. Just chewed it to pieces. Ate its head off! I mean, look at it.”

I looked to where he’d indicated; saw a plastic lawn gnome with—sure enough—its head chewed off. “Aw, no.” I clicked my heals, saluted smartly. “Wilber. For him the war is over.”

Wilber just looked at me. “You, ah, you out here on business, Chief? Or are you just out here to be cute?”

“Actually, Wilber,” I walked toward him and handed him the bag, which crinkled. “I’m here to tell you to take your medicine. Two a day: One before breakfast—one before dinner. Call Vicki with any questions.”

He stared at the bag, irritably, contemptuously. “Will it help me sleep?”

“Call Vicki with any questions.”

“Hmpf.” And he went back inside.

“You’re welcome,” I said; even as the wind blew and the screen door banged.

And then I looked across the street. At the long, open, swaying gate and the hideous, black, gothic-style arch. At Sandy Chain Community Cemetery with its towering cyclone fences and tombstones like ruined teeth; its brown, semi-frozen lawns; its crypts and sepulchers full of nothing.

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