This Dog for Hire

like he was, painting him as some old faggot, some helen, in a fucking dress, for God’s sake, what would people think, and how would he earn a living, right, great, working with adolescent boys after those pictures were in everyone’s face, his luck, the shit would end up in some museum, and then he looked up, and saw that his brother had passed the car, he was on the pier now, running, running toward that stupid dog of his, damn thing would he the death of him, and you know, he couldn’t help it., he had to laugh at his own joke.
    It’s his own damn fault, the little shit, he just wouldn’t let it go. I told him, Drop it already, I told him, that’s how boys play, crying in the restaurant, his eyes all red, as if he were some girl, what would people think.
    After the impact, he hit the brake.
    Safe, he thought. I’m safe. Then, looking over his shoulder, he backed off the pier and was gone.
    The car was coming out backward, quick as it went in, and Billy Pittsburgh ducked down, down, down, under his blanket and lay still as snow, stayed that way so long, maybe he fell back to sleep again.
    When dawn broke, the gulls woke Billy, and, wrapped in his blanket, dragging his bag of bottles and cans, he walked partway out onto the pier, saw the dog was gone, saw the young white man lying on his back; and he turned around fast as could, knew just where he could take what he knew, trade it for some coffee, a place to sit and drink it out of the weather.
    Turning his back to the wind, he headed for Tenth Street, for the Sixth Precinct, passing on his way the wrought-iron gate that led down the passageway that opened into the garden in which my cottage sat and in which I lay warm as the coffee cup he’d soon be holding in his hands, sleeping like spoons with my dog.
    I don’t know how long I sat there brooding, but it was dark out, time to go. I had seen a leather backpack in Clifford’s bedroom closet. I took the significant audio- and videotapes and the box of slides I had picked up at B & H, put them in the backpack, and locked up the dark loft.
    Walking home from Clifford Cole’s sad, empty loft to my own cozy cottage, I kept trying to figure out exactly how I could make sure that Peter Cole Would get his just reward. I had to get him. Had to.
    Though I did not want to be the one to have to tell Adrienne Wynton Cole that she had lost both her sons.
    Still, it had to be done.
    That he deserved to be got, I had little doubt But so far all the evidence was circumstantial, none of it conclusive. I had to be sure that if he was charged, the charges would stick, because nowadays people got away with all kinds of murder.

34
    I Know Your Secret

    MAGRITTE BEGAN TO whine, anxious to run free in the garden. The lock on the gate seemed stuck— all these gates were so old—but I wiggled the key, and finally it clicked open. I unhooked the leads, and both dogs dashed on ahead down the narrow, unlit passageway. I locked the gate behind me and noticed how relieved and safe I always felt to be home.
    Except for the path, where it had been worn down by our feet, the garden was still covered with thick layers of snow, crusted hard on top so that there was a sound like crinkling cellophane when the dogs ran. It was a clear night. I stood still for a moment, looking up at the stars.
    It was quiet in the garden, the way it rarely is in New York. Even that hum that newcomers to the city are so conscious of, that unexplainable constant din of background noise, seemed to have abated. When Dashiell sneezed, it seemed as loud as a thunderclap.
    Inside, I toweled off the dogs, filled their water bowl, and made a fire. I thought about calling Dennis, but it was after eleven and I decided against it. It would be better to call him when I knew for sure what I was gong to do.
    I thought about calling Peter Cole, too, but not then. I could call late the next morning, after he’d left for work, and leave a message on his answering machine. I could even use my own voice-changing telephone, if I could figure out which box in the basement it was in.
    I know your secret, I could say.
    Yeah.
    Meet me at the pier. You know which one, and you know when. Don’t tell anyone about this call, asshole, and bring five thousand dollars with you.
    The price has gone up, I could say.
    Right. I should wait alone on the Christopher Street pier at four in the morning for a guy who had already killed his own brother, like he’d have some compunction about