Suckers - Jack Kilborn [2]
“Tell me a little about Marcus, Mr. Thorpe. Curly fries?”
“Pardon me?”
I gestured to the bag on my desk. “Did you want any curly fries? Potatoes make me bloaty.”
He shook his head. I snatched a fry, bloating be damned.
“I’ve, um, raised Marcus since he was a pup. He has one of the best pedigrees in the sport. Since Samson passed away, there has quite literally been no competition.”
“Samson?”
“Another Shar-pei. Came from the same littler as Marcus, owned by a man named Glen Ricketts. Magnificent dog. We went neck and neck several times.”
“Hold on, a second. I’d like to take notes.”
I pulled out my notepad and a pencil. On the first piece of paper, I wrote, “Dog.”
“Do you know who has Marcus now?”
“Another breeder named Abigail Cummings. She borrowed Marcus to service her Shar-pei, Julia. When I went to pick him up, she insisted she didn’t have him, and claimed she didn’t know what I was talking about.”
I jotted this down. My fingers made a grease spot on the page.
“Did you try the police?”
“Yes. They searched her house, but didn’t find Marcus. She’s insisting I made a mistake.”
“Did Abigail give you money to borrow Marcus? Sign any contracts?”
“No. I lent him to her as a favor. And she kept him.”
“How do you know her?”
“Casually, from the American Kennel Club. Her Shar-pei, Julia, is a truly magnificent bitch. You should see her haunches.”
I let that one go.
“Why did you lend out Marcus if you only knew her casually?”
“She called me a few days ago, promised me the pick of the litter if I lent her Marcus. I never should have done it. I should have just given her a straw.”
“A straw?”
“Of Marcus’s semen. I milk him by…”
I held up my palm and scribbled out the word ‘straw.’ It was more info than I wanted. “Let’s move on.”
Thorpe pressed his lips together so tightly they lost color. His eyes got sticky.
“Please, Harry. Marcus is more than just a dog to me. He’s my best friend.”
I didn’t doubt it. You don’t milk a casual acquaintance.
“Maybe you could hire an attorney.”
“That takes too long. If I go through legal channels, it could be months before my case is called. And even then, I’d need some kind of proof that she had him, so I’d have to hire a private investigator anyway.”
I scraped away a coffee stain on my desk with my thumbnail.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Thorpe. But hiring me to bust into someone’s home and steal a dog…I’m guessing that breaks all sorts of laws. I could have my license revoked, I could go to jail—”
“I’ll triple your fee.”
“I take cash, checks, or major credit cards.”
Night Vision Goggles use a microprocessor to magnify ambient light and allow a user to see in almost total blackness.
They’re also pricey as hell, so I had to make due with a flashlight and some old binoculars.
It was a little past eleven in the evening, and I was sitting in the bough of a tree, staring into the backyard of Abigail Cummings. I’d been there for almost two hours. The night was typical for July in Chicago; hot, sticky, and humid. The black ski mask I wore was so damp with sweat it threatened to drown me.
Plus, I was bloaty.
I let the binocs hang around my neck and flashed the light at my notepad to review my stake-out report.
9:14pm—Climbed tree.
9:40pm—Drank two sodas.
10:15pm—Foot fell asleep.
Not too exciting so far. I took out my pencil and added, “11:04pm—really regret drinking those sodas.”
To keep my mind off of my bladder, I spent a few minutes trying to balance the pencil on the tip of my finger. It worked, until I dropped the pencil.
I checked my watch. 11:09. I attempted to write “dropped my pencil” on my notepad, but you can guess how that turned out.
I was all set to call it a night, when I saw movement in the backyard.
It was a woman, sixty-something, her short white hair glowing in the porch light.
Next to her, on a leash, was Marcus.
“Is someone in my tree?”
I fought panic, and through Herculean effort managed to keep my pants dry.
“No,” I answered.
She wasn’t fooled.