This Dog for Hire

“bitch” a criticism, merely the proper nomenclature for the female of the species. “The coast,” I said. “L.A.”
    “Are you back for the show or back back?”
    I always wondered how Mike did the work. He was about my height and as wide as a doorway, big belly hanging over his belt so that he could never button his jacket, hands and face red, and he wheezed when he spoke.
    “Back back,” I told him, “I missed the snow.” The waiter came by with skewers of chicken basted in ginger and soy sauce. We each took two.
    “So, you’re going to be training in Manhattan again? Or what? Were you working out on the coast?
    “Sort of. Got married and divorced since I saw you.
    “Heavy!” he said. “You okay?”
    “I’m great.”
    “Hey, I heard about Bernie. Sorry, kid. What are you working with these days, another Golden?” My mouth was full of chicken. “Pit bull,” I said as soon as I could. “And I have a nice little basenji bitch, pointed, I want to breed.”
    “Basenji? Rachel—”
    “I know. I know. Anyway, I was thinking of breeding her to Magritte. I got this swell offer from Morgan Gilmore, his handler—”
    “Morgan Gilmore ! Shit!”
    “What?”
    “Six, eight months ago, that SOB tripped another handler in the ring, guy from the coast, maybe you know him, Ted Stickley?’
    I shook my head.
    “Fucker fell and broke his left arm, got up, punched Gilmore right in the snout with his right. Got a round of applause, too. Don’t deal with Gilmore, Rachel. He’s a snake.”
    “I wouldn’t have to send my bitch to him. He banks Magritte.” I took the last bite of chicken and waited.
    “All the more reason to be careful. He could be sending you anything. His own sperm, for all you’d know.”
    I made a face. “Thanks for warning me.”
    I walked over to the bar, asked for a glass of white wine, and stood watching everyone talk while I sipped it. Being called Kaminsky had instantly drawn me back to the suffocating bosom of my hypercritical family. Beatrice had been dead for over five years, but the memories lingered on.
    “Where are you going?” she used to ask me. “Out.”
    “Yes, but with your hair like that?”
    Gotcha.
    People were starting to head out, and when I looked at my watch, I saw it was time for the regular cocktail hour. The award winners and press moved to a larger ballroom, actually two rooms with several bars, tables full of raw vegetables, cheeses, and dips, and several hundred people who knew what and where a hock joint was.
    Morgan Gilmore was a few feet from where I was standing, his neat ponytail resting on the satin collar of his tuxedo jacket, a glass of wine in one ha rid and a cigar in the other. He wore his string tie instead of a bow tie and cowboy boots. Black lizard. How fitting! He was as classy as a bowling trophy.
    I intended to stick as close to Gilmore as gum on his shoe, but I was back in my old milieu, and every time I tried to eavesdrop, someone else had another story to tell me. When the dinner hour arrived, I trailed behind Gil, ever hopeful, and managed to sit at the table next to his. But once again the animated conversation close at hand precluded hearing am thing from his table. So while I ate ray steak dinner', I ended up listening to how many points everyone’s dog had accumulated during the last year, just when my eyes were about to roll permanently up into my head, the ceremony began. I angled my chair so that ! could watch Gil watch the proceedings.
    The fifth law of investigation work says, Don’t jump to conclusions. I began to wonder if I had. Just because Morgan Gilmore was a thief and a distasteful. repugnant human being did not make him a murderer.
    In fact, I was only dead sure that he was distasteful and repugnant, t didn’t even know for sure that he was a thief.
    Suppose Cliff had lied to Dennis. Dennis thought Cliff was close to broke. Was it part of Clifford’s southern manners to hide yet another easy source of income from his hardworking friend?
    How did I know that Gil wasn’t giving the stud fees or some agreed-upon percentage of them to Cliff after all? W hat if lie was just a tasteless slime, and not a thief at all, let alone a killer?
    Suddenly all I could think about was Clifford Cole’s cozy little den, where, among his other papers, he kept his bank records. A peek in there might let me know if Gil was sharing those hefty stud fees or not. I figured the stud fee for a good-quality champion basenji such