the heaves returned, and he pushed himself to his knees and yakked up a small pool of yellow bile.
His head felt as if somebody’d driven a steel rod in one ear and out the other. He groaned, lowered his face close enough for the odor of his own discharge to straighten him right back up. One foot beneath him and then the other. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and then wished he hadn’t, as the act allowed his brain sufficient time to process the pain screaming up from his ankle. He hopped on one foot and looked around. The backyard suddenly seemed enormous, the fence miles away. He put the toe of his injured foot on the ground for balance. Pain lanced through his lower leg. He bent at the waist and massaged his ankle. He groaned and then dropped to one knee. That’s when he heard the shouts.
“There he is,” someone yelled.
When he looked up, a head and a pair of dark-clad shoulders were sticking out of Shirley’s window, pointing at him and yelling for backup.
Paul struggled to his feet and limped across the yard toward the back fence, an unadorned cedar-planked affair separating Harmony House from the big green-and-white mansion on Howser Street, a house and yard with which Paul was quite familiar as the owners were longtime customers of Suzuki Landscaping. Paul pushed off his good ankle and managed to propel the top half of his body up onto the top of the fence, which rocked and swayed from the addition of his weight and the power of his momentum. Using his heavily muscled arms, he hoisted himself up and over, landing on one foot in the soft bark of the cut flower garden that Paul had, last summer, helped to build. A deep growl scattered his thoughts like litter.
Then he remembered. The big white German shepherd with the bad attitude. Used to follow him wherever he went in the yard. What was its name? Something about . . . and then it came to him.
“Blanco,” he said, holding out his hand. The dog put his teeth away, ran his pink nose over Paul’s knuckles, and wagged his tail. Paul patted him on the head a couple of times and then limped across the yard as quickly as he was able.
He made it to the rear gate and was lifting the latch when he heard somebody scrambling over the fence behind him. Unfortunately for his pursuer, so did the dog. The guy probably would have been all right if he’d been quicker with his feet or better yet hadn’t tried to kick the dog in the head at all. As it was, Blanco sidestepped the flying shoe and bit the guy in the crotch. A high-pitched yowl rose above the rush of wind in the trees. As Blanco lowered his hindquarters and began to shake his head from side to side, the pitch of the scream rose to operatic heights.
Paul closed the gate and limped out toward Howser Street. He could still hear aria al castrado wafting through the trees as he hooked a quick left and gimped it south beneath the canopy of century-old oaks, festooned now with new-grown leaves, glowing ad-glow green in the sun and quivering like virgins in the breeze. He crossed the street, moving diagonally toward the big gray stone house halfway down the block, another of Ken’s customers, whose name he could not recall. He’d rounded the corner of their porch when he heard the squeal of tires and the roar of an engine. He ducked between a pair of massive rhododendrons whose tightly folded purple blossoms threatened to explode their spring encasements. He stood motionless as one of the black Lincoln Town Cars came roaring by, squealing all the way to the corner and turning left, running back toward Arbor Street in a cloud of burning rubber. Paul moved along the side of the house, crossed the yard, and stepped through the gate. He found himself in a wide unpaved alley running the length of the block. Here on the true crest of the hill, the backyards of the mansions did not abut one another.
Instead, the practical needs of the households were serviced by a communal alley running along the rear of the
His head felt as if somebody’d driven a steel rod in one ear and out the other. He groaned, lowered his face close enough for the odor of his own discharge to straighten him right back up. One foot beneath him and then the other. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and then wished he hadn’t, as the act allowed his brain sufficient time to process the pain screaming up from his ankle. He hopped on one foot and looked around. The backyard suddenly seemed enormous, the fence miles away. He put the toe of his injured foot on the ground for balance. Pain lanced through his lower leg. He bent at the waist and massaged his ankle. He groaned and then dropped to one knee. That’s when he heard the shouts.
“There he is,” someone yelled.
When he looked up, a head and a pair of dark-clad shoulders were sticking out of Shirley’s window, pointing at him and yelling for backup.
Paul struggled to his feet and limped across the yard toward the back fence, an unadorned cedar-planked affair separating Harmony House from the big green-and-white mansion on Howser Street, a house and yard with which Paul was quite familiar as the owners were longtime customers of Suzuki Landscaping. Paul pushed off his good ankle and managed to propel the top half of his body up onto the top of the fence, which rocked and swayed from the addition of his weight and the power of his momentum. Using his heavily muscled arms, he hoisted himself up and over, landing on one foot in the soft bark of the cut flower garden that Paul had, last summer, helped to build. A deep growl scattered his thoughts like litter.
Then he remembered. The big white German shepherd with the bad attitude. Used to follow him wherever he went in the yard. What was its name? Something about . . . and then it came to him.
“Blanco,” he said, holding out his hand. The dog put his teeth away, ran his pink nose over Paul’s knuckles, and wagged his tail. Paul patted him on the head a couple of times and then limped across the yard as quickly as he was able.
He made it to the rear gate and was lifting the latch when he heard somebody scrambling over the fence behind him. Unfortunately for his pursuer, so did the dog. The guy probably would have been all right if he’d been quicker with his feet or better yet hadn’t tried to kick the dog in the head at all. As it was, Blanco sidestepped the flying shoe and bit the guy in the crotch. A high-pitched yowl rose above the rush of wind in the trees. As Blanco lowered his hindquarters and began to shake his head from side to side, the pitch of the scream rose to operatic heights.
Paul closed the gate and limped out toward Howser Street. He could still hear aria al castrado wafting through the trees as he hooked a quick left and gimped it south beneath the canopy of century-old oaks, festooned now with new-grown leaves, glowing ad-glow green in the sun and quivering like virgins in the breeze. He crossed the street, moving diagonally toward the big gray stone house halfway down the block, another of Ken’s customers, whose name he could not recall. He’d rounded the corner of their porch when he heard the squeal of tires and the roar of an engine. He ducked between a pair of massive rhododendrons whose tightly folded purple blossoms threatened to explode their spring encasements. He stood motionless as one of the black Lincoln Town Cars came roaring by, squealing all the way to the corner and turning left, running back toward Arbor Street in a cloud of burning rubber. Paul moved along the side of the house, crossed the yard, and stepped through the gate. He found himself in a wide unpaved alley running the length of the block. Here on the true crest of the hill, the backyards of the mansions did not abut one another.
Instead, the practical needs of the households were serviced by a communal alley running along the rear of the
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