Read Online Night Kill by Ann Littlewood - Free Book Online Page A

dragging me to a big dog show at the Portland Expo Center on Saturday was essential to my mental health. That morning, she picked me up at the house in her Saturn and was determinedly chipper on the drive. I heard all about her job at the furniture store, which she hated, and the malnourished kitten she had recently adopted and was introducing to her other two cats. She talked with one hand on the steering wheel, the other illustrating important points.
    I wasn’t much help keeping the conversation going. During a pause, a huge red semi swept past us. A snarling tiger was painted on the side ten feet high, part of an ad for Olde English 800 malt liquor. “Beer can with tiger attacking. My personal eighteen-wheeler from hell,” I sighed.
    “Yes. We need to talk about that. You don’t look so good.”
    “Just tired.”
    She gave me a look.
    “Watch the road. I’ve lost Felines—how would you expect me to look? Telling Wallace what happened with Raj was the most adult thing I’ve ever done. I’ll never do anything that mature again as long as I live. Way too painful.”
    Marcie put both hands on the wheel and stared straight ahead. “Your way of dealing with grief is not exactly the mature one.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Pretending Rick didn’t happen isn’t working.”
    “I’m not pretending. I’m rebuilding my life. What do you want me to do—wail and snarl and feel sorry for myself?”
    “Take it easy. Keep in mind that I’m actually on your side.”
    If Marcie’s goal was a relaxed outing, this was not going according to plan. We rode in silence for a few minutes, with me regretting angry words.
    Marcie found her positive energy before I did. “You might actually like Birds, if you give it a chance. More rounded experience, good career move, all that.”
    “No cats. Calvin. Second banana.”
    She gave up on cheerful. “What’s wrong with Calvin? I thought you liked him.”
    “Calvin’s fine, as long as we’re eating lunch together. My gut feeling is that he’s an old-fashioned guy who remembers when being a keeper was a male thing. Arnie was his relief keeper for years and I don’t think he got to vote on swapping Arnie for me.” I stared morosely at the green struts of the Interstate 5 Bridge. “Now Calvin’s my boss. I liked not having a boss at Felines.”
    “You had Wallace.”
    “True, but I mostly ran Felines the way I wanted. I wasn’t a senior keeper, but I got to make decisions like one. Calvin is a senior keeper for Birds, and I’ll try to do as I’m told. It’s that or leave the zoo.”
    “You learned Felines from one of the old guys. You got along fine with him.”
    “I was brand new. I didn’t know any better than to do whatever Herman told me. He was a ‘clean it, feed it, go play cards ’til 4:00 PM’ keeper. I don’t know if Calvin is just putting in his time until retirement or not. And another thing. We’re finally starting to use training instead of drugs and physical restraint. I’m working with the cats so that we can do exams and medical procedures without getting them stirred up or knocking them out. Calvin isn’t doing anything like that with birds, and he’s not likely to let me start a bunch of new procedures.”
    “Maybe a whole lot of dogs will help.”
    We pulled off the freeway and began the circuitous route that winds to the Portland Metropolitan Exposition Center.
    Inside the Expo Center, a maze of show rings and exhibits was strung out over three big buildings connected by enclosed corridors. People of all ages wandered around, many of them attached to dogs. Crowd noises were spiced with barks and yelps; the huge space smelled of popcorn and canine grooming products. We were swept into the slow stream of dog-loving citizenry.
    I had issues with some practices in the pure-bred dog industry, such as mutilating the ears of Doberman pinschers and developing breeds that can’t give birth without caesareans, but I had to admit