Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [102]
I couldn’t drive any deeper into the junkyard because I knew there was a ten-foot drop lying straight ahead. And I didn’t get out of the car—those dogs had never seen a can of Alpo in their lives. It wasn’t even noon yet but the place was dark. It always is.
When the dogs saw I knew the procedure they all sat back and waited expectantly. The monster Dane on the hood of the car pointed his snout toward the sky and let out a wail that sounded like Kaddish for canines. There was no other sound.
The Dane hit his aria again. One more time, then stone silence.
I badly wanted a cigarette but I just sat there, hands on top of the wheel. If things weren’t as they were supposed to be I could just throw the Plymouth into reverse and make believe I had never seen the place—that is, if the Mole hadn’t added some new nonsense since the last time I had visited. I wasn’t anxious to find out.
I watched the Dane. When his head swiveled sharply toward the side I knew what was coming. The brindle-colored dog bounded into the clearing about ten feet ahead of the car, effortlessly clearing the deep ditch. A mastiff-shepherd cross from the looks of him—a handsome bastard with a bull’s body and a wolf’s face. He had the same fur coat as the others but with a broad, arrogant tail that curled up over his back toward his neck. Perfect long white teeth flashed in a lupine grin. He slowly cruised the outside of the circle the other dogs had formed, moving with the delicacy and strength of a good welterweight, in no hurry. I heard answering grunts and growls from the other dogs, but they each made way for him. He shouldered his way through the pack until he was standing right next to my window, cocked his massive head, and gazed up at me. It was time. I slowly and evenly rolled down the glass, letting my face emerge so he could see me. But this beast was no sight-hound, and I had to use my voice—fast, before I couldn’t use it anymore at all.
“Simba, Simba-witz,” I called out. “What a good boy. How’s by you, mighty Simba? You remember me, pal? Simba-witz, I’m here to see my landsman, the Mole. Right, Simba? Okay, boy?”
I kept a running patter of stuff like that until I saw that Simba remembered my voice. I knew he wouldn’t attack if he heard his full name called, but I wanted to be sure. Calling him Simba would get his head up and paying attention, but Simba-witz was his full Hebrew name and only the Mole’s people would know that. The Mole once told me that Simba looked too much like a German shepherd—so even though he was the smartest of the pack, a natural leader and the father of dozens of the pups that were born in the junkyard every year, the Mole couldn’t love him until he figured out a solution. And thus Simba became the very first Israeli shepherd, dubbed Simba-witz, the Lion of Zion. The Mole told him this stuff so often that I think the beast believed the legend. I don’t really know if he thought he was a lion, but I did know he didn’t have to worry about a goddamned thing—he had his first pick of the food and his first pick of the women. A beautiful life, although the accommodations left a lot to be desired.
Simba gave me a short bark, rose up until his gnarled paws were resting on the rolled-down window. I kept talking to him, leaned forward, and he licked my face.
I slowly opened the door and climbed out, patting his head. I would have liked to throw some of the dog biscuits I keep in the car to the other dogs to make friends, but I knew what they would do if they were offered food without the magic word, like I have for Pansy. I didn’t know the word, and I didn’t want to be the food, so I left it alone.
Simba listened to me say “Mole”