This Dog for Hire

buyer’s bank account by a rich, understanding relative and, subsequent to approval, “re-placed” back in the owner’s account. A secure job always has more weight with the bank.
    He had removed, and probably destroyed, the paintings Clifford made to shame him. I remembered that when I had looked at Cliff’s will, the codicils had been out of order. Peter must have checked the will to see where Cliff’s paintings were going. He’d need to know that. But he couldn’t have taken them that night. He had to return the key to Haber’s, and even rolled up, the painting would have been noticed. No matter. That is, Until he learned about the show. Then he had to act fast.
    But he didn’t know that Clifford kept a meticulous record of all his paintings by taking color transparencies of them.
    Neither did he know that Clifford’s therapy sessions had all been taped.
    I was sitting on the floor in the big, bare, empty studio, hugging my dog now, Magritte curled and asleep at my side.
    He knew when Clifford went to therapy, when he wouldn’t be home, when he could use his key, whistle for Magritte, take him away to use as bait to get his brother out onto the pier, to make it look like the sort of crime no one would bust his ass to solve.
    Peter had evidently used a voice-changing telephone, ninety bucks from Sharper Image. Probably bought it, used it and tossed it. Made his voice sound higher, like a woman’s voice, to disguise his identity and maybe even to make it all sound less threatening to his brother.
    But only a person who had never lost his heart to a dog could think that any scenario that put that relationship in jeopardy could sound less threatening. Less threatening than what—nuclear holocaust?
    “I have Magritte.” Three little words.
    Sticks and stones will break your bones, they chanted in the schoolyard when I was a kid, but words will never harm you. Another of the lies I grew up on.
    What did Clifford do while he waited? What did he think?
    When did he write and hide the letter?
    Why had he hidden the tape? Had he planned that after he got Magritte back he would take it to the police?
    Did he get the message in time to get to the bank before it closed? Of course, with Select Checking, he could have gotten the thousand from the ATM by making two withdrawals of five hundred each. He had noted the amount he had taken out, not how it had been retrieved.
    I laid my face on Dashiell’s neck, breathing in the comforting smell of dog, and closed my eyes.
    Frantic. He must been frantic, wandering from room to room—everywhere he looked, Magritte wasn’t there.
    Finally, it was time to go. He felt the money, a small lump, in his pocket. Not as much as it would be for a person. After all, Magritte was only a dog. That’s what the police would have said. Louis would have said that, too.
    He crossed West Street, the wind going through his clothes, and finally he heard him, heard Magritte, and his heart lifted like a piece of paper caught in a gust, swirling and joyous. He never saw the car, sitting there, motor off, he only heard Magritte. He began to run.
    Peter sat across the seat waiting, watching out the back window of the rented car.
    I had even found out where yesterday, by calling all the rental places as Mrs. Peter Cole, complaining I was overcharged. Thrifty Auto Rental, West Ninety-fifth Street, walking distance from his new apartment, assured me the bill was correct.
    “We have the AMEX receipt, Mrs. Cole,” they told me. “Shall I send you a copy?”
    Difficult to rent a car without a credit card. Difficult to vise a fake name when you need a credit card and driver’s license.
    Still, he’d planned so carefully. He knew he couldn’t use his own car. Clifford would have recognized it. Had to think it out, think it through, find a way to stop the little shit-eating sissy from destroying his life. He had his name to think about, his reputation, his job. He had sons to protect.
    His sons. How he missed them. There was another one who took things the wrong way, Linda, that cow, making a big deal over everything, couldn’t even let him love his own kids in his own way, seeing faults in every little thing. Forcing him out.
    The way his brother had forced him into this. Threatened him.
    Both of them. Family! Well, fuck that noise.
    It wasn’t that he liked the idea of killing his brother, shit, he was no pervert, he wouldn’t enjoy doing this, it just had to be done, Clifford running amok