Rachel Alexander 05 - The Wrong Dog

thing to hit them with. What are they, eight?”
    “But profoundly disabled. That makes them a lot older than eight in some ways. This kid, the one who told me, I had the impression he handled it okay. When it comes to tragedy, these are not innocents. I get the feeling that Sophie was a terrific teacher and I’m willing to trust that she knew what the kids could and couldn’t handle and what might help them open up. But she sure did talk a lot about personal things.”
    “Not someone I’d want to share a secret with.”
    “Too late for that anyway.”
    “Can I call you later, babe? I’m in my client’s driveway. I’m late, the front door just opened, and, you’ll never believe this, the biting Chow is out and she’s off leash.”
    “Be careful.”
    “That’s precisely what I was going to say to you. I’ll call you later.”
    I was down in the teens already, just a block from the Chelsea Market. I got in line at Amy’s Bread, ordered a rosemary round and three prosciutto twists, and began eating one of the twists on my way back out to Ninth Avenue.
    Outside, I began mulling over the things I’d learned, trying to see if I could make sense out of the little I had. But one thing kept coming back: Vacor. So instead of going home, I headed for Third Street, one hand in my jacket pocket, holding Sophie’s keys as if they were an amulet.

Chapter 20
    I Could Hear the Patter of Little Feet

    I didn’t stop at the door to Sophie’s building. I passed it and went to the next building, ringing the bell that said Supt. This time a man answered.
    “Sergei?”
    “Who is it?”
    “I’m working for your boss. I need to talk to you,” I said, glad I hadn’t stopped to pick up the three dogs. Explaining them would have been a challenge.
    “I come up,” he said and the static disappeared.
    The Minetta Garage was across the street, a few small, brick multi-tenant dwellings next to it, a pizza place on the corner. Alongside the building where I waited was a Japanese restaurant, dark blue flags with Japanese lettering flying out front. Then the door opened and Sergei was there, his hair unnaturally black looking, his skin too old for that hair. He was short and wide, like his wife, but not as frightened looking as she had been.
    “Yes?”
    “I’m doing some shelves for the office,” I said, making it up as I went along, “and I was told I could use your tools. I’d like to see what you have?”
    Sergei looked dumbfounded.
    “What shelves? I make plenty shelves for office, do electrical work, fix plumbing, take care of all buildings.” He swirled his big callused hand around as if he was mixing potato salad without a spoon. “I do all. Why he ask you—”
    “It’s a trade,” I told him, as sincerely as I could. I sighed, letting him know that I, too, would rather he was building the damn shelves, but what’s a person to do?
    Sergei was unmoved. In fact, he was blocking the doorway with his short wide body, keeping me from where I needed to go. I had no choice but to try to be more convincing than I’d been thus far.
    “Barter,” I whispered, as if I was saying something I couldn’t afford to allow that couple leaving the Japanese restaurant to hear. “I owe him some money. Back rent. I don’t have it.”
    The frown changed to a look of concern. “From one of his other buildings?”
    I nodded. “So I’m making the shelves, instead of paying him cash.” I shrugged.
    He finally got it, stepping back and extending one arm, his big hand open, to show me the way.
    “Thanks. I really appreciate this,” I told him, already planning my next move. He passed me and I followed him to the door I’d used the other day and down the dark, narrow stairway to the cellar where Sergei and Mrs. Sergei lived, free from the oppression of Communism. We passed the door to his apartment and continued down to the end of the dimly lit hallway. When he opened the door to the cellar, I felt less celebratory about having cleverly left my dog at home.
    It was a dank room, low ceilinged and musty. When he stopped at his workbench, I stopped, too, but it wasn’t quite as quiet as it should have been. For just a moment, I could hear the patter of little feet from behind some old furniture.
    That aside, it was time for part two. I waited until my eyes adjusted better to the poor light. Sergei lifted a large tool box onto the workbench, opened it, and stepped back.
    “Take what you need,” he said. “Not having