This Dog for Hire

parody of Sabotini. “That’s can- cer,” be explained. “Don’t say nothin’. It makes bumps and dark spots, you know, on your skin, and John’s real self-conscious about looking ugly.”
    “Okay,” I told him, “I’ll be cool.”
    We entered the small, sunny room with only one of the beds occupied, the other stripped, meaning John’s roommate had recently died. Here you checked in, but you didn't check out.
    Even though he was under the covers, I could see that John was unusually tall. He was also unusually thin, a not quite gaunt mocha-colored man with a bad case of KS, his face as lumpy as a flophouse mattress. He wasn’t as thin as Ronald, who had wasting syndrome, but he was no Refrigerator Perry either. When he spoke, I heard the unclear, raspy voice that meant he had severe thrush, another sign of a system going down.
    “Who you brings, man? You brother?” he said to Ronald. Then he began coughing into a small towel that had been lying next to him on the bed.
    Ronald lit up. “See, Rachel, I told you. Isn’t he funny? No, John, it’s your brother. Only kidding. It’s Petey. From Our Gang.”
    “Yeah. And who I be? Buckwheat?” he said, coughing again.
    “This is Dash. And I’m Rachel.” I put out my hand, but he brushed at the air instead of taking it.
    “You wanna walk him? He walks real nice. Ronald said, holding out Dashiell’s leash. But I could see that John was not up to getting out of bed.
    “ ’Nother time,” John said. “I takes him next time. Shows him where I use t’live. He like it they. Be real spacious.” Then he began to cough again. I began to feel he was beyond where a visit from a dog could interest him, but a moment later, he asked if Dash knew how to bark. I told him yes and he asked me if I would show him.
    “You can do it yourself, John. Just tell him speak.”
    “Will he?”
    “Yes. Try him.”
    He shook his head, then lay back and closed his eyes. “I’n wants to’ do it. I needs t’ hear it.”
    I said Dashiell’s name and asked him to speak. He barked twice, a booming, deep roar, his front legs coming off the floor, his ears flying up, then flapping back down like a bird’s wings at takeoff.
    John’s eyes stayed shut, his lips spreading wide into a smile.
    “ ’S true, what I hears,” he asked, eyes still closed, “a barking dog don’t bite?”
    I opened my mouth to disappoint him with the answer, but I didn’t get the chance.
    “Wunt touch ’at sucker wit no ten-foot pole. Wunt bark no how.”
    “He just did,” I said. I was about to signal Dash to bark again when John spoke again.
    “You comes back. This dog I likes.”
    “I will,” I promised.
    “I will,” he repeated, smiling.
    Ronald and I headed downstairs to Sabotini’s office to cut a deal. A few minutes later Dashiell and I were in a taxi heading uptown to Madison Avenue and the American Kennel Club library. Dashiell spent the ride making nose prints on the right-side passenger window as I watched the city pull by us on the other side.
    Sabotini had given me a list of patient names and room numbers as well as a batch of forms so that I could take some brief notes for him, but I had only glanced at the pages before folding them and putting them into my purse. For now, I had to see what I could find out about the illegal activities of one Morgan “No Problem” Gilmore.
    The American Kennel Club library is a place where no librarian would ever have to say Shhh: from what I have always been able to see, it’s one of the best-kept secrets in New York. The only other person I’ve ever seen there is the librarian.
    The studbooks register the pedigree, that is, the sire and dam, of a dog or bitch that has been used at stud or has whelped a litter for the first time. They also contain the name of the owner of each dog listed and the breeder of that dog. What I would be looking for would be Magritte’s name, Ch. Ceci N’Est Pas un Chien, as a sire, to get an idea of how many of his offspring had been bred last year.
    Not all the dogs Magritte sired would be on this list. Some would never be bred, some would still be too young to breed, or, if they had been bred be fore, wouldn’t show up because the list was for first-time parents only. Still, it would give me an idea of what Gil was doing, and it was also the best way of complying with laws one and three.
    I made careful notes whenever Magritte’s name showed up. In fact, by poring carefully over the register for the