The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [73]
I was right, you know. You should see a shrink.
Before he could answer, the knock sounded again. He went back downstairs and looked through the peephole again. Still, no one was there. He unbolted the door and opened it roughly, but saw nothing. He walked out to the patio and looked both ways. No one was there.
Hearing things, Fred?
“Oh, shut up. You heard it too.”
He walked back to the office and sat in his leather chair, swigging a sip of his bourbon and melted ice and swirling the crystal glass around.
“She can’t turn me down! Not after turning me down in the bank!”
She can and she will, Fred. You’re wasting your time. She’s a little girl. You’re an old man.
“I’m middle-aged.”
You’re old. You’re old and you’re a queer.
“I’m—” Before Fred could answer, the knock came again. He raced down the stairs, growling, and swung the door open only to find Rusty, out of breath and wagging his tail.
“Damn you! Fucking dog!” He brought the crystal glass down on the dog’s head, shattering it. “You fucking asshole!” he spat, kicking Rusty in the ribs. The dog jumped back up with a yelp and moved away. Fred pursued him and grabbed out for his neck. Rusty avoided each grope, one after the other, until Fred gave up and went back inside. He returned to his office, fixed another glass of bourbon, and sat down in his yellow chair. When he leaned back and closed his eyes, he pictured Saffron in her coral bikini, scolding him.
You shouldn’t hit your dog like that.
“Let me make it up to you,” he answered.
Make it up to me?
“Let me take you to dinner.”
She said you shouldn’t hit the dog, Fred. She thinks you’re an asshole.
“Shut up and let her answer! You’ll see!”
I think you’re an asshole.
“What?”
She put a hand on her slender hip. I said I think you’re an asshole. You shouldn’t hit your dog.
See? I told you! She thinks you’re an asshole!
“No, you think I’m an asshole.”
I do too, she agreed.
“Well, fuck you both, then. I’ll show you just how big of an asshole I can be.”
That’s right, Fred. You show us.
“This is my turf! This is my beach! This is my fucking dog and I can do what I like to it! Call me an asshole, will you? Call me a queer? I’ll show you who’s queer!”
That’s right, Fred. You show us who’s queer.
“Just shut up, will you!” Fred screamed, and then drank back his bourbon in one mouthful, swishing it through his cheeks and his teeth like mouthwash before swallowing it. It was four o’clock, so he turned on McHale’s Navy, kicked off his slippers, leaned back into the chair, and promptly fell asleep.
At six o’clock, Fred woke to another knock at the door. Before he got up to answer it, he opened his bottom desk drawer to retrieve a can of pepper spray. His bottom drawer was full of that sort of stuff—a large rubber strap, a leather whip twisted into a perfect circle, a dart pistol, a pair of night vision goggles, two sets of handcuffs, two palm-sized cans of mace, and a boxed set of surgical scalpels. He put the pepper spray in his pocket and walked down the stairs. He readied his hand to catch Rusty by the neck this time, and jerked the door open quickly without using the peephole.
A young local woman with wide eyes jumped back. “Good evening, sir,” she said. “I’m collecting for the Saint Elizabeth Literacy program. We help—”
“Illiterates?” Fred snapped before she could finish. He looked past her for the dog.
“Yes, sir. We teach people who missed out on an education.”
Fred stepped out past her and looked both ways for Rusty. The woman retreated, frightened. He reached into his pocket, past the pepper spray, and pulled out an American ten-dollar bill. “Here. Now go away.”
“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much,” she repeated, and then hurried up the patio steps and back onto the road.
“Fucking illiterates.” Fred walked out toward the pool and searched for the dog. As he walked back, he stepped on a piece of broken crystal still scattered