Jimm Juree 01; Killed at the Whim of a Hat

road and sat beside him.
    “Almost dead dog,” I said.
    “Planning on dressing it up, are you?”
    That was as close to a joke as I’d heard from the lips of Granddad Jah in many a year and, if the taste was anything to go by, I’d be happy to wait many more for the next.
    “Well, he’s not guaranteed death,” I said. I opened up the flaps to show him.
    “You sure?”
    “I took him to the vet. He didn’t exactly fill me with confidence. He seemed to think ninety percent of puppies in this area die a horrid death from intestinal parasites before they’re six months old. He had a sort of cocktail that worked wonders on calves, he said. He gave this little rag a shot of it, said he should really be on a saline drip but he didn’t have one and, even if he did, he confessed he had trouble finding veins any smaller than a garden hose. He gave me some antibiotics just in case the mite makes it through the afternoon.”
    “Since when have you been a rescuer of dogs?”
    “Granddad, this is Sticky Rice. He’s a hero. He solved the Wat Feuang Fa mystery. He was the mutt that rescued the camera. He deserves a longer shot at life.”
    “Fair enough.”
    We sat for a while. It was a really bad day for traffic.
    “Granddad Jah?”
    “Hmm?”
    “Do you see anything of Captain Waew?”
    “Who?”
    “The detective from Surat.”
    “Oh, him. No.”
    “You should invite him up. Hang out together.”
    Granddad Jah stiffened. For a man who was already eighty percent bone, that took some doing.
    “Why should I do that?”
    “‘Cause you make such a good team.”
    He half turned his head, looked at the box on my lap, then turned back.
    “Don’t know what you mean,” he grunted.
    “Stolen Milo van, wiped clean, naked gangster padlocked to a bench in a train station. ‘Deserved’ – sa som in animal blood written on his belly. Sound familiar?”
    “You don’t think…?”
    “Yes, I do. I imagine you were planning to get a confession out of him for the killing of the hippy couple. Then you found out – ”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.”
    “Then, in fear of his life, he told you it was his own daughter in that VW and that she was very much alive. I imagine you were really disappointed because you both knew what a seedy character he was.”
    Granddad searched the horizon and the tops of the trees for traffic.
    “Lucky you believed him,” I forged on, “‘cause I dread to think what you might have done to him otherwise. All you were left with was humiliation. So, I think you were lucky.”
    A congealed blood-red pick-up truck with a black plastic fish-chest on the back plodded past at forty kilometers an hour, spitting out exhaust and causing its own force field of pollution. I stood up and waited for it to pass. The driver waved. I waved back. Everybody waved down here. I wouldn’t be surprised if husbands waved at their wives when they woke up in the mornings.
    “Nice touch though,” I added. “Spelling my name wrong. ‘Jum’ indeed.”
    He couldn’t hold back the smile.
    “You’re wasted as a girl, Jimm Juree,” he said. “Wasted.”
    I took the box down to the beach and wondered whether Sticky would prefer a land or sea burial. I opened the flaps so the sun could get in and looked for evidence of breath. It was scant. I gazed up at the swimming pool sky to see if there were vultures circling overhead. Gogo had picked up on the scent of death and followed me down to the water’s edge. It was true she’d eat anything but surely there were taboos, even for dogs. She stopped three meters away, turned eleven circles and lay on the hot sand with her backside pointed directly at my head.
    “You’re a hard bitch to love,” I said.
    “I hope you aren’t talking to me.”
    Mair had followed me down to the beach. She had a tiny bottle of Yakult in her hand. I saluted a company that could convince half a country it couldn’t live without weak sugared milk and germs.
    “No, Mair,” I said. “You’re an easy bitch to love.”
    “What’s in the box?” she asked.
    “Sticky Rice.”
    “Oh, good. I bought some grilled chicken earlier.”
    I tipped the box on its side.
    “Non-digestible,” I told her.
    “Oh, you poor baby,” she said, reaching into the carton and lifting the limp pup onto her lap. There was evidence of very unpleasant secretions on the newspaper he’d been lying on. Despite that, Mair held Sticky to her chest and cooed at him. There was a slight movement that could