Jimm Juree 01; Killed at the Whim of a Hat

saw, he’d soon outweigh me, but at that moment he was still a little fellow.
    Life hadn’t been kind to him. Barely six months on the planet and he was already in the doghouse. An inmate of the mutt penitentiary where all bad street dogs came to die a slow death. I decided I wouldn’t thump him with my shoe once I’d retrieved it. He’d suffered enough. But he was still a meter from my grasp. Luckily I was wearing clothes I could throw away when I got home because I had to crawl through grime to get to him. I emitted those clicking sounds that are supposed to make dogs feel at ease but I positively refused to engage him in a Mair-type conversation. I knew if I could just reach out and touch his ear like the nun had done he’d regain some self-esteem. I was now close enough to my shoe but the fat kid refused to give it up. I walked my fingers to it and he snapped at them. I growled again and he trembled. Mexican stand-off.
    That’s when I was distracted by the sight of a small black shape off to my left side. I moved my cell phone to get a better look. Eureka and bejabers! It was a camera. Half the Nikon label was visible although it had been almost completely chewed off. The whole thing looked as if it had been attacked by sharks. It seemed a little upmarket for the usual Pak Nam crowd: a fancy lens and dials and what have you. Would it have been too much to hope that I’d found the elusive crime-scene camera? Was it likely that an overweight pup would have the energy to drag it all the way back here from the concrete path? Sticky answered that himself. He abandoned my shoe and leaped to defend his camera. He bit into what was left of the strap and started to drag his booty away from me. But that little prize was mine and, puppy or no puppy, I was prepared to fight him for it.
    ♦
    “I don’t know. It’s jammed or something.”
    “You should have given it to the police.”
    I swore that if Arny said that one more time I’d push him out of the truck and drive myself.
    “I will,” I said again. “Just as soon as I’ve seen what’s on it.”
    “No, I mean, you should have given it to the police as soon as you found it.”
    If ever my mother retired from mothering, I knew I’d always have brother Arny to take her place. How could three siblings come from such different planets? We were on Highway 41 heading into Surat. It was a monotonously straight stretch of road and it was only the surprise arrival of holes or lumps that kept you awake at all, which is probably why they were never repaired.
    “Arny, listen,” I said. He was driving, so he had no choice. “Do the police know I found the camera? No. Has anyone actually reported it missing? No. If I handed it over tomorrow, would they have any way of knowing I hadn’t just that very minute discovered it? No. Is the fat pup going to fess up? I don’t think so. So, relax.”
    “We know. Our consciences know.”
    Honestly, if Lieutenant Chompu had been available, I would have asked him to drive me. It was his case, after all. But he’d gone to Prajuab to the army base where they’d taken our bodies. He wouldn’t be back until late. I needed back-up so Arny was my only choice and on long-distance drives he could be like one of those self-help tapes stuck in the player on a loop.
    I had the camera in a transparent plastic bag and I’d tried everything I could to play back any photos it contained. But somewhere between the dropping and the dragging and the chewing, and probably a good helping of saliva, the temperamental piece of equipment had lost its ability to display. The only markings I could make out between the scars were the letters DSLR and the beginning of a code, D3555. It looked like a very expensive camera, sturdy but not too heavy. It wasn’t the type of thing a regular tourist would carry around. Our photographer at the Mail had a Canon that looked similar. I’d get Sissi to look it up. But, right now, I wanted to see pictures. I took my laptop out of its case and switched it on. I couldn’t get into the camera but I could take out its memory chip and display it on my computer.
    “Arny,” I said.
    “Mmm?”
    “The laptop.” It was open on my lap and dead as a jellyfish.
    “I don’t know anything,” he lied. Only my mother lies with less conviction than my brother.
    “Yesterday, this was fully charged.”
    “Really?”
    “Really.”
    He folded like a deckchair.
    “I just took it down to the beach for a few