For Mayhem or Madness
2
Man’s Best Friend
IT WAS RAINING—which wasn’t unusual for Seattle in November—and I was moving. My timing was impeccable. I’d finally finished repainting everything in my apartment white—as I’d promised Jared when I moved in and covered the room with black wallpaper. I’d sent my bed, desk, and recliner to the Big Blue Truck. They also got all my kitchenware and dishes, my audio system, and my bedding, drapes, and most of my clothes.
Just prior to the destruction of Patterson Gaming Network, I’d completed another little job. I’d been paid handsomely. Movie star handsome. FinCEN, the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network, had used my services as a computer forensics detective to track down and deactivate an entire Mexican drug cartel. The DEA had previously been unsuccessful in catching them with the dope, so FinCEN moved in and nailed them for money laundering. It was a lot like the IRS nailing Al Capone when no one could pin a murder on him. We moved when the top dog was visiting his underlings in Texas.
The Mexican government had declined the kingpin’s request for intervention and passed on the opportunity to extradite him. With the evidence we had, the Feds had him for twenty to life in financial crimes. We’d heard that a lot of top players in the cartel had died in the battle to become the new leader and the organization had been so fragmented that it was unlikely they would have a serious presence in the market for years.
I decided to visit Mexico City… just to see a little of the country I’d inadvertently helped. Of course, I didn’t provide the Mexican government with the information they didn’t have to make the operation they didn’t launch successful. No. Nor did they pay me a quarter-million non-taxable dollars in Eurodollar Bonds. Those bearer bonds were held in a safe deposit box in Mexico City rented under a different name.
Before the Patterson massacre, I’d withdrawn nearly all my cash from the bank, leaving token amounts in the bank to pay off credit cards. The cash was stuffed in a backpack that I carried with me at all times and never opened.
After Patterson, I had a clean slate. My banking records had been corrupted. My credit cards had all been canceled. My cell phone accounts and even my T1 line were disconnected. Even the electricity in my apartment was turned off at the end of the month. It looked like I got the same treatment as everyone else caught up in the massacre. I was digitally dead. I simply had a faster recovery time by producing paper backups of my records and getting new accounts set up.
I decided it was time to put as much of the past behind me as I could and find a new place to live. That’s what brought me to moving on the first of November in the rain.
I told Mrs. Prior I expected to be here a long time and she made me a great deal on the upstairs apartment—especially when I offered to pay a year’s rent in advance. In cash. She’d managed to convert a huge old house to a duplex with a full one-bedroom apartment upstairs. I arranged to include utilities for the apartment in my rent so I didn’t need to go through the hassle of getting a new utilities account set up.
With the view over Queen Anne, I’d be able to see Mount Rainier to the south and the Olympics in the west. On a clear day. Which today was not. I could barely see the tree in our neighbor’s yard.
Recliner World was the first to arrive with a new chair. It was hard to give up the old one, but I’d had it for twenty years and it had stopped being my favorite place to sit after the last spring broke. The new chair was leather and felt like a body glove when I sank down into it.
I’d just finished hanging my one painting where I’d be able to see it when I sat in the new chair when the Best Buy delivery truck showed up with the new television and stereo system. Mrs. Prior was happy to include cable service as part of my rent.
The Macy’s Home Store truck arrived with my new sofa, kitchen table, chairs, and bed while I was unloading my clothes from the back of the Mustang. The delivery guys were not happy about having to negotiate the narrow stairs with the king-size mattress. But what a bed! I stretched out on it and my full 6'2" frame actually fit.
Then I headed to Target to get bedding. I had no sheets, blankets, or even a dust ruffle that would fit a king size bed. I added dishes, cookware, and utensils. I’d decide tomorrow whether I still needed to go to Ikea. I dreaded that one, but I’d do it if I had to.
When the day was done, I was soaking wet, tired, achy, and cross. The excitement of having a new place had been supplanted by exhaustion and I was eying my new bed with sleep in mind. First, I needed a shower.
It wasn’t a big apartment, but I’d been able to move everything that wasn’t delivered new with two trips in the Mustang. The bath was tucked in on the bedroom side of the galley kitchen and had a shower that was actually big enough for me, the shower head being above the normal height. No tub, so I suppose it really only counted as a three-quarter bath, but tubs are always too short anyway. If I want a soak, I’ll go to the health club. The bedroom was plenty big enough for the necessities of sleeping and dressing with a large closet under the eaves. I had plans for that space that not even Mrs. Prior needed to know about.
The entrance at the top of the stairs opened into the living room that now had a comfortable sectional sofa, new leather recliner, television, stereo, and coffee table. Next to it was a small dinette at which I could comfortably seat four people if I wanted guests. I’d have to improve my cooking skills before that happened. All told, I had more than twice the space I’d had in my little efficiency.
I stepped out of the shower and nearly fell over the little bundle of fur that was sitting outside the stall door waiting for me. I yelped, the dog yelped, and from somewhere outside my door I heard Mrs. Prior yelp. The little black dog ran out of the bathroom and I managed to dry off and grab my robe before I left the bathroom. Curled up in the middle of my bed was possibly the oddest-looking dog I’d ever seen.
“Mr. Hamar?” came Mrs. Prior’s call from the hall. “I think Maizie might have come in while you were moving. Have you seen her?”
“Are you Maizie?” I asked the dog. I swear she nodded. “I think so,” I yelled. “I’ll be right out, Mrs. Prior.” I grabbed a pair of sweats and dressed quickly then turned to the dog. “I take it you’re friendly,” I said sitting on the bed next to Maizie. She crawled up into my lap, licked my face once, and settled back down. Question answered. I picked her up and carried her to the door where Mrs. Prior was waiting on the landing. “Is this the truant?” I asked. Maizie licked my ear again.
Mrs. Prior is a pet psychic. The business card says ‘Pet Communicator.’ The short of it is that she talks to animals and they apparently talk back. The number of animals in my landlady’s part of the house varied from one to twenty depending on who she was working with or rescuing at the time. Unlike what you might think, however, her house was kept immaculately clean, though she sometimes had a stray feather in her hair or a bit of fur on her clothes.
“Oh, there you are, little girl. What do you think you are doing?” She held out her arms for the dog, but Maizie made no move to go to her. In fact, she buried her nose in my armpit. “Really? Have you discussed it with him?”
“Uh… discussed what?”
“Oh. Maizie seems to believe that you have moved here for her. She has claimed you.”
“Wait. You mean the apartment comes with a pet? That wasn’t part of the lease.” I was deciding whether to be upset, though I found myself continuing to pet the dog cuddled in my arms and realized I’d made no move to give her to Mrs. Prior. For her part, my landlady simply looked at me with her eyebrows raised. “I often travel with my work. I could be gone for days at a time. I can’t have a pet. And then there is the office. I don’t plan to work from home. I’ve never had a pet. I don’t know the first thing about keeping a dog. And what is she?”
Cleverly circumventing all my protests, Mrs. Prior went straight to my last question.
“Mr. Hamar, there is a sad thing that still happens in this day. Are you familiar with dog-fighting?”
“It’s illegal.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t still going on. Why just a while ago there was a professional athlete arrested for dog-fighting. Very high profile. Even here in Washington, there are cretins who train dogs to kill other dogs. They train them by kidnapping small pets and letting their fighting dogs kill them.”
I bristled at this. I’ve never been a pet owner, but seeing any animal mistreated raises my hackles. I might just have a new mission.
“How does that affect Maizie?”
“She’s a rescue. Or rather her mother was. County animal control, supported by the sheriff’s office, raided a farm outside Carnation a few months ago after finding a bedraggled bite-marked dachshund beside the road. They’d had suspicions before, but the escapee gave them probable cause to move in. They rescued five pets and had to put down four pit bulls that had been so mistreated the officers could not get close. They never found the dachshund’s owner and called me to care for her. As it turned out, she was pregnant. Apparently, the drive to mate had exceeded the drive to kill, at least for a little while. There were only four puppies and when they found out about it, the ASPCA took over and moved the dachshund and three of her puppies to a shelter.”
“Only three of the puppies?”
“They never actually found out about the fourth,” Mrs. Prior said sheepishly.
“So Maizie is a cross between a dachshund and a pit bull?” It boggled the mind.
“I think she’s been waiting here for you.”
“Um… you know, I’m not a big believer in animal communication, Mrs. Prior. No offense. But I really don’t have a lifestyle that is compatible with pet ownership.”
“Well, we’ll say she belongs downstairs then,” she said brightly. “But if you leave your door ajar, I think you’ll have company when you are here. Right, Maizie?”
“I don’t have anything I need to care for a dog,” I said as Maizie wiggled up in my arms and started licking my ear again. Damn!
“I have a leash, food, and bowls at the foot of the stairs. She hasn’t been tagged yet, and by law you’ll need to have her spayed. I just wouldn’t say anything about her parentage if I were you, or that you got her from me. And any time you need to leave for work, Maizie is welcome to stay with me. Of course, Maizie has decided that she is your guard dog and you need her to protect you.”
I looked at the bundle of fur in my arms, maybe fifteen pounds, but only a few months old. Guard dog? I thought. Maizie yipped. It was settled.
I’d just started a new relationship.
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