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By Root 708 0

his jaw for a moment, but to his credit, he didn’t respond. He served up another question instead. “You mentioned playing baseball with your pooch. Would this be an Irish wolfhound?”

“Yes, but it’s not my old one. He’s still lost or run away or whatever. This is a new one. Just got him a couple weeks ago—he’s all registered and got his shots and everything.” I had done precisely that to sell the fiction that my old dog was really a new dog. Again, thanks to Aenghus Óg, Oberon was wanted for a crime that should have been laid at Aenghus’s door. Luckily, it’s far easier to get a new ID for a dog than it is for a person. Bureaucrats at Animal Control don’t suspect people of getting fake IDs for their pets. They take your form and your check and give you a shiny set of tags for the collar, and that’s it.

“Where is he?” Geffert asked.

“In the backyard.”

“May I see him?”

“Sure, whatever, dude.” I waved at the back door, and Geffert walked through it to see this new dog of mine.

The Man is coming. Remember, you’re a meek little guy, turbo-tame.

I peered out the kitchen window to see Geffert approaching Oberon, and my hound was as good as his word. His tail twitched hopefully on the ground, he ducked his head, and then he turned over on his back, presenting his belly and neck with his front paws hanging limply near his chest. This couldn’t possibly be the man-eating animal the police were looking for in connection with a park ranger’s death.

Wow, what a performance! Where did you learn to do that? Oberon usually squirmed around during his belly rubs, and he sometimes closed his mouth gently over my arm. He never stayed that still and passive, believing as he did that belly rubs should be an interactive experience.

Geffert didn’t rub Oberon’s belly at all. He just squatted down to check the tags on his collar to confirm that they were recent. He stood back up and looked speculatively around the yard.

Geffert started pacing around the herb garden, looking closely at the ground to see if any of it was recently disturbed.

Like what? I don’t know if I can top your Oscar-winning performance.

Hal stepped up next to me with an update on the search. “They’re being much more polite this time, putting everything back once they move it. He hasn’t mentioned removing you anywhere for questioning yet, so I don’t think he will unless they find a sword.”

I heard a clatter coming from the living room and went to investigate. A female detective had managed to spill my DVD collection all over the floor. It seemed like an excellent opportunity to burnish my character as a pathetic guy forever trapped in an adolescent fantasy land. “Oh,” I said, widening my eyes and then shifting them guiltily, shoving my hands into my pockets, “if you find any porn in there … it isn’t mine.” The look she gave me was three parts disgust and two parts revulsion. “I swear.” I edged away and carefully didn’t smile until I was back in the kitchen. Hal chuckled quietly.

“You are so full of shit,” he whispered.

“Hey, the care and feeding of an alter ego is an art form,” I replied in the same low tone. “Here comes the detective. Watch him ask about the scorch marks.”

Geffert strode through the door with a frustrated frown and seemed to notice the blackened portions of my cabinetry for the first time. “What happened to your kitchen, Mr. O’Sullivan?”

“Oh, that.” I rolled my eyes. “You know those little cooking torches you use to set your crème brûlée on fire? Well, I was using one of those last night on my tasty dessert and bangin’ my head to some old school hair bands, you know? And the torch was still on as I was doing all these fist pumps and stuff and I didn’t realize it.”

Geffert scoffed openly. “You unknowingly caused all this damage with a miniature acetylene