House of Blues

told her what she planned to do
that night—go find Turan.
    "Take Hodges," said Cappello. "He's
good and steady."
    " Why not? We had a good time last night."
    She went home, hoping Cappello would pipe down
sometime soon. It wasn't that she didn't sympathize with her; it was
that she didn't like her talk of leaving. Skip liked being on
Cappello's platoon, and there were other sergeants she didn't much
care for—like Frank O'Rourke.
    Oh, well. She could get transferred out as easily as
she could leave. So could I for that matter.
    Every time a new mayor got in, there was a new
superintendent, and sometimes there was one in between terms if he
embarrassed the department too badly. Each new superintendent did
what he pleased; seemingly random transfers had happened before and
could happen again.
    Skip had stepped in the shower that morning without
washing her hair, forgoing beauty in favor of extra sleep. But after
a day in the sauna that was New Orleans in summer, it was a mop of
wet nasty curls she couldn't wait to deluge. After that a nap would
go down well, alongside Steve Steinman if he was home.
    But when she opened her door, a great, fanged,
snarling beast leapt at her.
    Steve said, "Napoleon! Easy, boy! Hey, it's
okay." But he seemed to be somewhere in Kansas and there was a
large dripping muzzle in Skip's face, a hot smelly one, and jaws that
clipped together every time the creature barked, which was about
eight times a second.
    She had already stepped back involuntarily, past her
own threshold, and now stood in the courtyard, which the beast seemed
to be willing to concede to her, as long as it could have the house.
    " Napoleon. Hey, boy. That's Skip; our good
friend, Skip. Hey, boy, take it easy now."
    The thing was a German shepherd, she saw now, and she
also saw that Steve was holding it by the collar. She had heard
barking when she arrived, she realized that also, she just hadn't put
it together that it was in her house.
    "What the hell is that creature doing in my
house?"
    " You're mad?"
    "Mad? Wouldn't you be if you came home and found
the hound of hell in your living room? Which is probably now covered
with hair and God knows what else."
    "He's for Kenny. Easy, boy. Hey, Napoleon. She's
a friend, okay? Skip, hold out your hand so he can sniff it."
    "Are you crazy? That thing just tried to kill
me."
    "Well, I admit that was a little disconcerting.
Maybe you remind him of someone."
    "He reminds me of somebody too. Cerberus. The
Hound of the Baskervilles. The monster in every movie I saw before I
was ten."
    The dog was starting to calm down, but Skip was
having a delayed reaction. She felt slightly shaky, and didn't want
to admit it.
    " Nice dog," said Steve. "Go say hello
to Skip."
    " Listen, how about if you take him for a walk
while I go in and take a shower? Then you can leave him in the
courtyard while you tell me what the hell this is all about."
    "Well, uh . . ."
    "What?" She was almost inconceivably tired,
it was ninety in the shade, her hands were still shaking, and she was
getting madder by the minute.
    "He just pooped in the kitchen."
    She brushed a handful of sticky curls back from her
face and started silently counting, but she only made it to three. If
she ever got this mad on the job, she hated to think what could
happen.
    "You take that creature out of here, and by the
time I get out of the shower he better be Rin Tin Tin and you better
have my kitchen clean."
    "Okay, okay. I just have to get his leash."
    As she wasn't about to walk by those fast—snapping
teeth, that meant she had to wait another century or two before she
could go into her own home. When she did, the smell of fresh dogshit
greeted her.
    She stayed in the shower about half an hour—at any
rate, longer than she ever had, because the water was starting to go
tepid, which it never had before.
    When she came out, she pulled on a light cotton robe
and lay down on the bed, feeling slightly better, especially since
she heard sounds that sounded like cleaning up down below.
    In a while Steve joined her. "I'm sorry. I
didn't know you didn't like dogs."
    She sat up. "I don't like dogs? Excuse
me—there's a big difference in not liking dogs and being attacked
in my own home."
    " He's for Kenny. For that little problem he
has."
    She was bewildered. "What?"
    "He needs a friend. So I got him one—a nice
fuzzy one."
    "Wait a minute. You think you can cure Kenny of
bed-wetting by siccing Cujo on him? What do you plan to do—scare
the