Rachel Alexander 03 - A Hell of a Dog

probably have his dog growling too, figuring Martyn was afraid of Rotties, and why not capitalize on the edge he had and terrorize him all the more?
    “I’ll have the desk ring his room when we go back to the hotel.”
    True, the man drank a lot of vodka the night before, I thought, but wasn’t he, in his own words, Russian man with constitution of iron, not weak American?
    “You know what,” I said to Sam, “I’ll go back and have the desk call up now, see if we can rouse him.”
    Sam didn’t seem concerned. “Let him sleep, Rachel. He’ll be as grouchy as a Russian bear if you wake him. At least let Martyn finish in peace.” She waved me to stay where I was, and I did. But I couldn’t help wondering if Boris was really in his room, or if like Alan Cooper, when he didn’t show up when he should have, he too had fallen victim to an accident.



YOU DIDN’T DO A VERY GOOD JOB

    M artyn was still taking questions when I headed back to the hotel. I too was going to miss Tracy’s talk on phasing out food rewards, but from what I’d seen in the park, I wouldn’t be missing much.
    The old guy was on, Jimmy’s father. I asked him to ring 306. After shuffling around as if he’d forgotten where the switchboard was, he did.
    He held the phone a few inches away from his ear and shook his head. “No one’s picking up.”
    “Keep trying. He might be sleeping.”
    “It’s twelve-fifteen.”
    I flicked my hand at him to ring again, waiting until he shook his head a second time.
    “Probably out in the park with that big dog of his—bigger than yours, that one. My son’s having a hard week. ” He chuckled, having himself a whale of a good time at his son’s expense.
    “Did you see him go out?”
    “Can’t keep track of all of you. Not with mail to sort, checkins, check-outs.”
    He shook his head again. No wonder his neck was so skinny.
    Dashiell and I headed up the stairs. Boris’s room was across the hall from mine. Maybe a knock would wake him where the phone hadn’t. Maybe he was sitting in there letting us stew, not answering on purpose. At least I’d find out if Sasha was in the room. No way I could stand outside of Boris’s room with Dashiell and not get a rise from the Rottie.
    Dashiell headed for our door but then followed me over to Boris’s door. When there was no sound from inside, I knew before knocking that Sasha wasn’t home. So did Dashiell. He went over to sniff at the sill of Betty’s door.
    I knocked twice, just to be sure. But if Sasha wasn’t there, Boris wouldn’t be there. Boris could go out without his dog, but it didn’t work the other way around.
    I thought about checking out the park, but who was I kidding? It was enormous. Boris and his dog could be anywhere. I wouldn’t know where to begin.
    I headed downstairs for the café, hoping that someone else had seen Boris, and felt a little foolish when I got to the bottom of the staircase. I could hear him from the far end of the hallway.
    “It’s your temperament that should be tested,” he was shouting, “afraid to test Boris’s dog. You make students think something wrong with Sasha, all dogs tested but him. What did he ever do to you? And what are you doing in dog business if you can’t handle well-bred Rottweiler?”
    I heard no response.
    When I opened the door to the café, everyone but Sam was at the table, all of them staring at Boris, whose face was as red as it had been the night before.
    “Maybe that’s way things are in England, whole country maybe a little—” Instead of spelling his insult out verbally, he raised his eyebrows and rocked his hand from side to side. “Afraid of rabies coming in through Channel tunnel, have six-month quarantine, dogs can die of broken heart before you let them on your island, afraid of pit bull, ban them, shoot them, castrate them, muzzle them, now afraid of Rottweiler, what next?”
    His face was redder now than when I’d come in and taken my place at the table.
    “Where’ve you been?” Chip asked. “You missed the first ten minutes of this?”
    “Powdering my nose.”
    “You didn’t do a very good job. It’s still shiny.”
    “High-gloss powder,” I told him in Russian accent. “Deflects harmful UV rays. Keeps Rachel’s skin young.”
    “Keep your day job,” he said.
    “Has Martyn said anything back?”
    “Never got the chance. Besides, I think Boris has a point. He’s got a well-behaved dog with a sound temperament. There was no reason for