This Dog for Hire

House used to be the River Hotel. The whole top floor, with its sweeping, spectacular river views, belonged to the expensive, chic La Grande Corniche restaurant. You can still see both signs, but now homeless men and women occupy the whole building, people dying of AIDS who have nowhere else to do it.
    I approached with the mixed feelings I always had doing this work. Why the hell was I here? How could I say no? Perhaps that’s why Zachery says I’m only a medium-boiled detective.
    Mr. Sabotini said he’d like to watch me with a few patients and see what Dashiell did, and then we could talk about the feasibility of regular visits. He was short and small with annoying little hands that fluttered constantly as he spoke, and he did that— speaking—slowly and carefully, exaggerating the enunciation of each and every syllable as if I were retarded or perhaps suffering from dementia. He was bald across the crown but had cleverly combed some long hair from the side of his head over the top and glued it down with something that made it look wet and stiff, so that of course no one could tell. And he was one of those self-important prigs who often end up working in institutions, people whose personalities are so offensive that they could never make it in any sort of private practice or in any situation where people feel they have any choice.
    I was ready to split when one of the patients walked into the office where we were talking and noticed Dashiell.
    "Oh, God, it’s Petey,” he said, falling onto his knees and embracing Dashiell without asking anything. Lots of people called Dash Petey, the pit bull with the line drawn around his eye that was in the Our Gang comedies.
    “Hi,” I said. He didn’t look up. His head was bent down against Dashiell’s neck, and his arms reached way around, squeezing as tight as he could.
    “He’s won-der-ful,” he said, his face so thin it was barely more than a skull, his eyes shining with the look some people get shortly before they die.
    “His name is Dash.”
    “I'm Ronald,” he said, taking his arm from around Dashiell and pointing to himself. “Will he be coming here regular?“ He sat back on his heels and tightened the belt on his robe. “I like him so much.”
    “Ms. Alexander and Dashiell are here to discuss that today, Ronald,” Mr. Sabotini said.
    “Rachel,” I said. “Can we walk you back to your room, Ronald?”
    “Sure. Really?”
    I banded him the leash and told him how to get Dashiell to heel.
    Ronald was beaming. “Can I do this? Yes, I can do this. This is the most fun I ever had here.”
    “Me, too,” I said. Mr. Sabotini was taking notes on a very little pad as we walked Ronald to the elevator, and seemed to miss the joke that Ronald and I were sharing.
    I will say this for Robert Sabotini. He hung back and let me and Dashiell do our thing. Ronald, not Sabotini, became my guide, taking me from room to room, filling me in on names and bringing me up to date on each person’s latest opportunistic illness, which Ronald referred to as an OI. He held Dash’s leash and then passed it on to those who wanted to walk the big dog, too. Anyone who could, did.
    I was surprised at how much I was enjoying myself, even though that’s a funny term to use about a place like this. But each time we entered a room, the occupants would light up, and though their evident pleasure was because of Dashiell’s presence, not mine, I still got to bask in the results. After we had visited nearly a dozen patients, Sabotini said he had seen enough and we could go downstairs and talk.
    “No, wait. She di’n’t meet John yet,” he said. “Gotta show John Petey, okay, pleeze, Mr. Sabotini, it’ll just take a minute. You go. I’ll bring her down. I know the way.”
    “Well, if Ms. Alexander has the time, Ronald,” Mr. Sabotini said.
    “It's fine,” I said. “We'll be down in five minutes.”
    “If you’re quite sure,” he said, smoothing down a hair that had come unstuck.
    “She is. She’s quite sure,” Ronald said.
    We watched Sabotini leaving like two little kids watching the teacher leave the room. Ronald took my hand and pulled me down the hall to a room at the end, near the window.
    “This is John’s room. I love him, John. He’s so funny. He could always cheer you up, no matter what he has.” Then he put his hand at the side of his mouth and in a dramatic aside told me, “He has KS. Kaposi’s sarcoma,” he said, enunciating carefully in a witty