Clown Girl - Monica Drake [45]
“I know what it says, but you’ve got the wrong bird.” I tried to close the door. Herman stopped me this round.
“You know about this?” He took the flyer. I wouldn’t’ve touched it.
The woman said, “This here’s your Plucky. This Plucky bird’s jus’ been out in the alley for a while. Maybe you don’t recognize your Plucky, hmm? Maybe your Plucky hit some rough times, and now you won’t take her back in.”
I said, “I’d know my own rubber chicken.”
Herman squinted at the flyer. He said, “What the hell?”
“Maybe your Plucky jus’ fell in with the wrong crowd, maybe she was looking for love and thought she’d found it…but you can’t trust nobody round here, that’s what Plucky knows now. Uh huh.” The woman’s eyes were flat and dull. She’d quit looking at me. “Plucky maybe learned a few things, and you say, ‘No way, no second chances,’ and jus’ like that, man, turn her ass back out on the street.”
I said, “Who are we talking about here?”
The woman swayed on the porch. She said, “Plucky don’t look so good now, but she’s got the same old heart she had back when you held her close.”
Herman slammed the door. Muffled, the woman’s voice came back. “Maybe spare some change? At least.”
“How many of these are out there?” Herman said. He shook the wrinkled flyer. A cigarette butt fell from one creased corner.
I gave a shrug. “It’s not like it’s got any big information.”
He said, “Cops and drug addicts. Do I need that combo at the door? You’re offering a friggin’ cash reward.” He snapped a finger against the paper.
“I’ll take care of it,” I said, though I wasn’t the only one bringing around drug users. The difference was, Herman’s were customers.
“Thin ice,” he said again. “This is about the breaker.”
“I’ll pull the flyers down.”
“Sheesh.” Herman fell back against the couch.
I limped into the kitchen. My cane tapped against the chipped linoleum.
“Injured in the line of duty?” Italia asked. She sucked ice cream from a spoon, with a carton in her hand, her knuckles big. “They must a treated you pretty bad down there. You look like crap.”
I shifted the bag on my shoulder. “Down where?”
She stuck her spoon in the ice cream again. “At the station, like? Am I wrong, or didn’t you just get arrested?”
My face was reflected in patches of glowing gray-white in the window over the kitchen sink. An overgrown laurel hedge kept that window dark all day. In the blurred shadows of the hedge, my eyes looked big and sunken like a skeleton head, holes in a mask. I set my pink bag and sunglasses on the counter, ran warm tap water, and cupped my hands to rinse the dust of the Ruins from my face.
Chance’s dish, on the kitchen floor, was still half full of kibble. She never left her dish half full. I called her name. She didn’t answer. Nadia-Italia put her palms on the counter and hoisted herself up backward to sit.
“Chance?” I called again. I opened the mudroom door. The room was empty, no dog. I tossed my bag and cane on the bed. “Where’s my dog?” I said.
“Lost your only Chance?” Italia smiled. I swear she smiled.
I said, “It’s not funny. She was here when I left. What’d you do with her?” I opened the basement door and called Chance, down the dark stairs.
“You lost your Chance and you’re trying to blame it on others.” Italia sat on her hands, her big knuckles under her thighs, on the counter. She shook her head at me. “Maybe the little yapper joined the circus.”
I said, “Tell me—where’s Chance? No joking.” My heart picked up its pace again. My hands felt weak.
“No clowning, Clown Girl?” Italia still smiled. “I’m not your dog’s keeper. It’s not our job to watch that rat terrier.”
“She’s a schipperke, not a terrier. Herman!” I called. My voice cracked with panic. I looked in the backyard, stood on the back steps, and called for Chance again. Nothing. I called Herman’s name