Suckers - Jack Kilborn [6]
“Buy a cat,” I told him.
Then I walked back to my car, Marcus in tow.
“Marcus!”
I watching, grinning, as Vincent Thorpe paid no mind to his expensive suit and rolled around on my floor with his dog, giggling like a caffeinated school boy.
“Mr. McGlade, how can I ever repay you?”
“Cash is good.”
He disentangled himself from the pooch long enough to pull out his wallet and hand over a fat wad of bills.
“Tell me, how did you know it was Glen Rickets?”
“Simple. You said yourself that he was always one of your closest competitors, up until his dog died earlier this year.”
“But what about Ms. Cummings? I talked to her on the phone. I even dropped the dog off at her house, and she took him from me. Wasn’t she involved somehow?”
“The phone was easy—Ms. Cummings has a voice like a chainsaw. With practice, anyone can imitate a smoker’s croak. But Glen really got clever for the meeting. He picked a time when Ms. Cummings was out of town, and then he spent a good hour or two with Max Factor.”
“Excuse me?”
“Cosmetics. As you recall, Abigail Cummings wore enough make-up to cause back-problems. Who could tell what she looked like under all that gunk? Glen just slopped on enough to look like a circus clown, and then he impersonated her.”
Thorpe shook his head, clucking his tongue.
“So it wasn’t actually Abigail. It was Glen all along. Such a nice guy, too.”
“It’s the nice ones you have to watch.”
“So, now what? Should I call the police?”
“No need. Glen won’t be bothering you, or any dog owner, ever again.”
I gave him the quick version of the backyard scene.
“He deserves it, taking Marcus from me. But now I have you back, don’t I, boy?”
There was more wrestling, and he actually kissed Marcus on the mouth.
“Kind of unsanitary, isn’t it?”
“Are you kidding? A dog’s saliva is full of antiseptic properties.”
“I was speaking for Marcus.”
Thorpe laughed. “Friendship transcends species, Mr. McGlade. Speaking of which, where’s that Collie/Shepherd mix that Abigail gave you?”
“At my apartment.”
“See? You’ve made a new friend, yourself.”
“Nope. I’ve got a six o’clock appointment at the animal shelter. I’m getting him gassed.”
Thorpe shot me surprised look.
“Mr. McGlade! After this whole ordeal, don’t you see what amazing companions canines are? A dog can enrich your life! All you have to do is give him a chance.”
I mulled it over. How bad could it be, having a friend who never borrowed money, stole your girl, or talked behind your back?
“You know what, Mr. Thorpe? I may just give it a shot.”
When I got home a few hours later, I discovered my new best friend had chewed the padding off of my leather couch.
I made it to the shelter an hour before my scheduled appointment.
An Andrew Mayhem Thriller by Jeff Strand
If you’re like me, you spend a lot of time trying to joke your way out of socially awkward and/or potentially fatal situations. A good example of this took place one summer evening when I was relaxing in my recliner with the novel Whose Blood Is In My Popcorn?, which I’d been reading off and on for the past four years. I’m not an ambitious reader.
I looked across the living room into the kitchen and saw an extremely large man holding an extremely large knife. He had long greasy hair, was wearing a black leather jacket that had metal spikes around the wrists, and I sort of got the impression that he had broken into my home to kill me.
By “broken into,” of course, I mean that he’d probably just casually walked in through the door in the kitchen that my wife Helen was always reminding me not to leave unlocked. She’d never specifically used a man with a knife as an example, but I’m pretty sure this is the kind of thing she was referring to.
“Are you here about the leaky faucet?” I asked.
Not my all-time funniest comment, I’ll admit. Still, when you consider that I said it to a huge guy with a knife and a homicidal glimmer in his eye, it was a more than passable effort.
He shook his head. “No. I’m not.”
“Oh.”
I considered my options.