Read Online Dog Bites Man by James Duffy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Duffy
Tags: Fiction
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'G.'"
Scoop still looked dubious. It seemed to him that his boss was being a trifle manipulative. Was this what hardheaded editors did?
"I'll call Sue and set you up with the immigrant."
. Â Â Â . Â Â Â .
It was arranged that Scoop would call at 62nd Street the next afternoon. Sue would be conveniently out, but Genc would meet him there. When he rang the bell, a young man slightly older thanhe opened the door. They shook hands stiffly, and Genc led him to the drawing room upstairs.
Rice took in the scene: highly tasteful modern and contemporary art all around, except for a perfectly ghastly oil painting of a black dog over the mantel.
"That the deceased?" Scoop asked, pointing to the picture.
"Deceased?"
"The dead dog."
"Ya, that's him. There, too," Genc said, indicating two silver frames on a side table. Freddie picked up one and noted that "Wambli" was engraved in script across the top.
"Mrs. Brandberg thought he is beautiful," Genc offered. Scoop tried to detect whether he agreed, but could not. As far as he could tell, the dog had not been beautiful at all. The picture in the silver frame showed a medium-sized jet-black animal with an ugly pug face and a white streak down his chest. He had seen more attractive skunks.
"What kind is he?"
"She tell me, but I probably not have it right. I think maybe Staffordshire?"
"Got me."
"She buy from the monks."
"Monks?"
"Ya. Upstate somewhere."
"Can we go to the scene of the crime?" Freddie asked.
"Okay."
. Â Â Â . Â Â Â .
"Your name is Genc, right?"
Genc nodded.
"But I'm supposed to call you 'G.'"
"G?"
"To preserve your anonymity. You're an immigrant, right? Without a green card?"
Genc nodded again, this time warily.
"Where you from?"
"Albania."
"Albania! Not Kosovo?"
"I have cousins in Kosovo, or did have. But I lived in Tirana. In Albania."
"You in the army over there?"
"Sure. Eighteen months. Every guy is unless you buy your way out."
"Pretty tough over there, right?"
"Ya. Not good situation."
Genc stopped outside 818 Fifth. "Here we are. Wambli was pissing right here," Genc explained, pointing down at the curb. "Beside a black car parked there. Then this guy came out the door. There. 'Move! Move!' he said to me, or something like that. But I couldn't pull the dog away while he was pissing, you know?
"Then this other guy, who stagger, stagger, and step on Wambli's leg. So he turned around and bit the guy. I would do that, too. Then the first guy pulls gun and starts shooting. Bam! Bam! I get the hell out."
"I was told there was a third man."
"Ya. He was shooting, too. I turned around and saw him just before I jump the fence."
While they had been conversing at the curb, a doorman had been watching from inside the front door. Scoop approached him.
"We were just talking about the shooting that took place out here on Monday. What do you know about it?" Scoop said.
"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know what you're talking about," the doorman said icily.
Scoop persisted. "A shooting. It happened about midnight last Monday. A dog was killed."
"I know nothing about such a thing, sir."
"What about the night doorman? He must have known about it and talked it over with the rest of you."
"Sir, I'm sorry. We do not have shootings here."
It was clear no information, if the man had any, was going to be forthcoming. But before he left, Scoop foisted his
Surveyor
business card on the recalcitrant.
. Â Â Â . Â Â Â .
Scoop walked back to Sue's with Genc.
"What made you think it was gangsters who shot Wambli?" Scoop asked.
Genc took his hands out of his jeans pockets and shrugged.
"That's what gangsters do."
"Shoot dogs?"
"Sure. In my country. Shoot dogs, people, horses, anything."
"Maybe they were policemen. Policemen have guns," Scoop offered.
"Nah. No uniforms. No badges. No sign on their car."
They were stumped.
"Say, Mr. Riceâ"
"Scoop."
"Scoop. Okay. So, Scoop, what means word 'squaw'?"
"Squaw? That's a
Scoop still looked dubious. It seemed to him that his boss was being a trifle manipulative. Was this what hardheaded editors did?
"I'll call Sue and set you up with the immigrant."
. Â Â Â . Â Â Â .
It was arranged that Scoop would call at 62nd Street the next afternoon. Sue would be conveniently out, but Genc would meet him there. When he rang the bell, a young man slightly older thanhe opened the door. They shook hands stiffly, and Genc led him to the drawing room upstairs.
Rice took in the scene: highly tasteful modern and contemporary art all around, except for a perfectly ghastly oil painting of a black dog over the mantel.
"That the deceased?" Scoop asked, pointing to the picture.
"Deceased?"
"The dead dog."
"Ya, that's him. There, too," Genc said, indicating two silver frames on a side table. Freddie picked up one and noted that "Wambli" was engraved in script across the top.
"Mrs. Brandberg thought he is beautiful," Genc offered. Scoop tried to detect whether he agreed, but could not. As far as he could tell, the dog had not been beautiful at all. The picture in the silver frame showed a medium-sized jet-black animal with an ugly pug face and a white streak down his chest. He had seen more attractive skunks.
"What kind is he?"
"She tell me, but I probably not have it right. I think maybe Staffordshire?"
"Got me."
"She buy from the monks."
"Monks?"
"Ya. Upstate somewhere."
"Can we go to the scene of the crime?" Freddie asked.
"Okay."
. Â Â Â . Â Â Â .
"Your name is Genc, right?"
Genc nodded.
"But I'm supposed to call you 'G.'"
"G?"
"To preserve your anonymity. You're an immigrant, right? Without a green card?"
Genc nodded again, this time warily.
"Where you from?"
"Albania."
"Albania! Not Kosovo?"
"I have cousins in Kosovo, or did have. But I lived in Tirana. In Albania."
"You in the army over there?"
"Sure. Eighteen months. Every guy is unless you buy your way out."
"Pretty tough over there, right?"
"Ya. Not good situation."
Genc stopped outside 818 Fifth. "Here we are. Wambli was pissing right here," Genc explained, pointing down at the curb. "Beside a black car parked there. Then this guy came out the door. There. 'Move! Move!' he said to me, or something like that. But I couldn't pull the dog away while he was pissing, you know?
"Then this other guy, who stagger, stagger, and step on Wambli's leg. So he turned around and bit the guy. I would do that, too. Then the first guy pulls gun and starts shooting. Bam! Bam! I get the hell out."
"I was told there was a third man."
"Ya. He was shooting, too. I turned around and saw him just before I jump the fence."
While they had been conversing at the curb, a doorman had been watching from inside the front door. Scoop approached him.
"We were just talking about the shooting that took place out here on Monday. What do you know about it?" Scoop said.
"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know what you're talking about," the doorman said icily.
Scoop persisted. "A shooting. It happened about midnight last Monday. A dog was killed."
"I know nothing about such a thing, sir."
"What about the night doorman? He must have known about it and talked it over with the rest of you."
"Sir, I'm sorry. We do not have shootings here."
It was clear no information, if the man had any, was going to be forthcoming. But before he left, Scoop foisted his
Surveyor
business card on the recalcitrant.
. Â Â Â . Â Â Â .
Scoop walked back to Sue's with Genc.
"What made you think it was gangsters who shot Wambli?" Scoop asked.
Genc took his hands out of his jeans pockets and shrugged.
"That's what gangsters do."
"Shoot dogs?"
"Sure. In my country. Shoot dogs, people, horses, anything."
"Maybe they were policemen. Policemen have guns," Scoop offered.
"Nah. No uniforms. No badges. No sign on their car."
They were stumped.
"Say, Mr. Riceâ"
"Scoop."
"Scoop. Okay. So, Scoop, what means word 'squaw'?"
"Squaw? That's a
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