This Dog for Hire

Street, near Washington Square Park.”
    “Is Lane his real name?”
    “Is Alexander yours?”
    “It is now.
    He raised one eyebrow.
    “I got it the old-fashioned way — I married it. How did Louis Lane get his?”
    “Made it up, for all I know.” He suddenly looked uncomfortable.
    “Perhaps he wanted something more memorable than his family name.”
    “Or less ethnic.”
    “You don’t approve?”
    He looked away for a moment.
    “It was Polski, not that it’s any of my business. At least that’s what Clifford once told me, but that was after a major row, so maybe Cliffie was just being a bitch.”
    “I take it you’re not terribly fond of Louis Lane.”
    “Miss Thing? Talk to me after you meet her,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I wouldn’t want to color your opinion.”
    Yeah, yeah,I thought.
    “What about the handler, that was Morgan Gilmore, right?”
    He put his hand up to his forehead and leaned his head into it. “God, I have to call him. He doesn’t know about Magritte. And it’s what”—he looked at his watch—“the second, less than a week until Westminster. Magritte is entered. I hope he’s okay, wherever he is, I just hope he’s okay.”
    I made a mental note to walk around the waterfront area and look over the barricades the next day, but the idea of finding the basenji that way didn’t thrill me.
    “Who found the body, Dennis? Did the police say?”
    “Yes, as a matter of fact, the officers who interviewed me said it was a homeless man who hangs out on West Street.”
    He proceeded to tell me about the derelict, Billy Pittsburgh, who occasionally earns five or ten dollars and a cup of coffee by wandering into the Sixth Precinct, just across Tenth Street and up the block from where I live, and giving them the location of a wrecked ear, a broken store window, or, in this case, a body.
    There was a lot more I wanted to know from Dennis, but it was time to see Clifford’s loft. I closed my notepad, stood up, and picked up my coat.
    “I better get going on this. We don’t have any time to waste.’"
    Dennis picked up a set of keys from the top of the bookshelf and handed them to me.
    “The round one is for the downstairs door, and the square one is for the loft.’
    “Can I hang on to these?"' I asked. “I’ll need to come back here, and I don’t want to have to bother you. I sometimes get obsessed with things in the middle of the night and have to check them out, and where I have to check might be Clifford’s loft.”
    “This might help, too,” he said, and he took out his wallet and pulled out a worn-looking photograph of Magritte.
    I looked at it, nodded, and put it carefully into my wallet.
    “By the way, Dennis, when was the last time you checked the loft?”
    “Three or four days ago. You can’t imagine . . . Well, anyway, I had those keys made for you. I figured you’d want to spend time there alone. Too many movies?”
    “Probably not enough. Life’s too depressing to deal with reality every minute of the day. Sometimes I hate reality.”
    “Me, too. That’s probably why I do what I do. Wait up.”
    He went to the back of the loft and returned with a book in his hand.
    “Here,” he said, “for the next time you need an escape from reality.”
    It was called Too Big, and it was written and illustrated by Dennis Mark Keaton. The huge dog on the cover, an Am Staff, looked a lot like Dash. “Thank you.”
    “So—how will I know what’s happening?” he asked as I headed for the door.
    “I’ll send you a report, once a week. What’s your fax number?”
    “Believe it or not, I don’t have a fax. I use a messenger service.”
    “Don’t sweat it. I don’t have a fax either,” I said. “And I hate to write reports. It makes me feel I’m back in school.”
    I turned the book over and looked at the back cover. A little girl with straight brown hair and round glasses was hugging the big dog, and they both looked deliriously happy.
    “Not to worry. I’ll call you. Or I’ll just draw you a picture from time to time.”
    I stepped out into the hallway.
    “And Dennis, don’t hesitate to call me—anytime— if you learn anything new, anything at all, or if you just need to talk. That’s okay, too.”
    I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a business card and some lint.
    “Okay. Good,” he said, looking at the card.
    It was pretty stark as cards go. It said, “Alexander and Dash, Research Assistance,” and the phone