Rachel Alexander 03 - A Hell of a Dog

its face. “She was supposed to deliver the opening talk, on breed character. So if need be, could you do that? I can put it later in the week if that would help.“
    „No problem.” Sam’s check was still in my hand. “Who was scheduled to do it?”
    “Tina Darling. Do you know her?”
    “We’ve met. You mean she’s missing, Sam?”
    “Well, I wouldn’t say that. All I know is that she hasn’t sent in her room form, nor is she returning phone calls. As the organizer, I have no choice but to assume she’s not coming and to cover her talk times, don’t I? It’s only good business. Rachel, people are flying in from all over the country, even from England if you count Marty Eliot, but he’s here lecturing more than he’s there practicing, so that probably doesn’t count. Still, I can’t just tell them all there are holes in the program, go shopping at Bloomingdale’s, can I?”
    She looked at the check, still in my hand.
    “Of course, I’ll pay you for the extra—”
    “That wasn’t my concern. Of course I’ll do it, Sam. Whatever you need is fine.”
    “Super. I already have someone to cover the slot on dealing with aggressive dogs. That’s another topic we can’t afford to omit.”
    “I see your point, of course. You have to have a backup, just in case. ” I folded the check in half and put it into my jacket pocket.
    “You’ll never guess who.” She leaned forward, clearly pleased with herself.
    I looked up. “You mean for the talk on aggression?”
    Sam licked her red lips, die cat who’d just stolen the cream. “He never does these kinds of things. Chip Pressman.” She was grinning. “He’s hard to get,” she whispered.
    Tell me about it, I thought.
    “I’ve been after him for years. See—lose some, win some. It all works out.”
    I felt Dashiell’s head lift up, brushing my leg. I knew if I looked down, he’d be looking back at me as if to ask what had happened to speed up my breathing.
    “Still,” Sam said, as much to herself as to me, “it’s a pity about Tina. She’s a wonderful speaker, astonishing for someone so young. She simply mesmerizes die audience.”
    “Maybe she’ll still show. Maybe she’s away, and planning to be back in time for her talk.”
    “Perhaps. I left her several messages, and I’m holding a room for her, just in case. But I can’t take chances with die program.“
    “No, you can’t.”
    “Of course, you’ll stay at die Ritz, all expenses paid,” she said, “including Dashiell’s. Since the Four-Legged Gourmet wanted to be the only booth with food our last day, I insisted they supply food for all the participating dogs, gratis. We can’t expect people to schlep their own dog food, can we? And I got another supplier to make up great sweatshirts for us. Wait until you see them.”
    She was some piece of work, Sam Lewis. Like many a bitch I’d trained, it seemed Sam too could and would do whatever it took to get her way—intimidate, whine, beg, plead, threaten, fool, even seduce.
    I had once seen a little bitch flag a male, tossing her tail to the side, a sign she was willing to mate, in order to get the bone he had and she wanted. It worked, too. Of course, as soon as the prize was in her possession, she changed her tune, acting as if she thought he were a periodontist.
    I wondered what my new employer’s follow-up would be, if she too showed her canines after she’d gotten whatever it was she wanted. After all, when you captured your prey with honey, or as in this case, money, that wasn’t the end of the story. But whatever that turned out to be, from what I’d seen so far, to help my audience really understand alpha, I could simply show them Sam.



I COULD HEAR BIRDS SINGING

    R oom 305 was small, but the big casement window had a spectacular view east, over Central Park. I opened the windows and let in some air. The room was painted cream, with a warm gray trim around the windows and heavy gray velvet drapes in case I got tired of trees in the foreground with the Fifth Avenue skyline beyond. The gray rug was thick, and so were the walls. I couldn’t hear Chip opening his suitcase and putting pictures of his wife and sons out on the small oak bureau or between the lamp and the clock radio on the nightstand near his bed. Instead, I could hear birds singing from across the street in the park and an occasional horn honking when the light changed on Central Park West. New York is a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t