Rescue

guy today?“
    “I feel lucky.“
    “I feel like shit.“
    She opened the passenger door and went back to her car. I heard it start and watched it make a three-point turn in my rearview mirror, then disappear.
    There isn’t much to do on a stationary surveillance. The subject can always slip out one of the doors you can’t see, but when you’re alone, there’s also not much you can do about that. You have to keep your eyes on the house, so reading’s not an option. Some people play bridge in their head, others go over pivotal baseball or football games they attended or watched on the tube. I bring a boom box and some audio cassettes, usually instrumental, because I find I can lose my boredom in them while my eyes and brain stay on the job.
    George-Ann had gotten several originals of the summons, in case we ended up leaving a set of documents in the mailbox or between the storm door and inner door of the house. The lawyer told her to do that as a last resort, but my guess was that it would be last-resort time soon, even though I wasn’t sure from my one year of law school whether documents just left at the house of Girlfriend A would be sufficient service on Boyfriend B. I was halfway through the second tape of the morning, a nice piano album by Liz Story, when the forces of good caught a break.
    The front doors of the house opened a little more than a crack, and the rottweiler bounded out, a jeweled collar around her neck, obviously intent on something. She barely 8 ot past the path to the house before evacuating herself graphically on the lawn. Using hind legs to kick some grass, dog did a patrol of the property, more playful than watched’ and then headed back up to the house, where the doors Magically opened and closed again.
    Interesting, when you considered that George-Ann told me
    ne had walked the dog only an hour or so before.
    I gathered together the sets of documents and turned on my boom box. Leaving the Prelude, I quartered my way toward the front of the house as though it were a machine-gun nest Then I sat behind a forsythia bush and waited. Fifteen minutes, half an hour, forty-five.
    That’s when the doors cracked open once more, and the rottweiler came bounding out again. She was intent on the same task, enough so she didn’t notice me until finishing her round of walking. I was down on my knees by then, patting the ground in front of me. The dog bounded up, tongue lolling outside her mouth. She battered me at the shoulders with her head, then bounded away and back, wanting to play despite her obvious diarrhea. I waited till she calmed down some, then scratched between her eyes with my left hand while my right was slipping one set of the court papers under her collar. Once I had them secured, I stopped petting, and she gave up on me and returned to the front doors. They opened again, and the rottweiler went inside. I waited for a count of three, then moved along the front of the house, my back to the horizontal siding, until I was just beside the entrance.
    The inner door came open all the way, the storm one flying outward as Harry of the photograph burst through. About fifty, he was maybe an inch shorter than my six-two-plus but built a little huskier than he seemed in two dimensions, with solid forearms under the Ralph Lauren Polo shirt and twill slacks. Henry was clutching, you might even say crushing the papers from the dog’s collar in his right fist, looking wildly up and down the lane.
    From ten feet behind him, I said, “You’re it, Harry.“
    He whirled around, shaking the fist that held the documents toward my face. “You think this is fucking service? You think this’ll stand up? You fuckhead, you got another think coming!“
    “Harry, two things on that. One, I’ve got a second set of papers right here. Two, I’m between you and the door.“
    He took a look at the door. “That’s kidnapping!“
    “I’m not taking you anywhere, Harry.“
    Another idea crossed his face. “False imprisonment!“
    “I don’t see anything stopping you from leaving.“
    His eyes flitted left-right-left, but without enthusiasm. “You fucker, i’ll get you for this.“
    “Harry, you can extend your hand, and I can lay these papers in it, or I can stuff them under your collar, too. Your choice.“
    He fussed and fumed, but after another few seconds, he extended his hand, and I served him.
    Harry said, “Goddamned fucking bitch.“
    “It’s not the dog’s fault. It’s—“
    “I’m