IQ(40)

“Bob Walters said you’ve got a new litter,” Isaiah said. “Bred your WindFlyer bitch to a Minnesota dog.”

“Dauntless Road Master Castaway,” Skip said. “AKC champion, best of breed at four nationals.”

“That’s the dog’s name?” Dodson said. “How do you call him? Here, Dauntless Road Master Castaway?”

“Isn’t Dauntless out of Amy Sullivan’s dog?” Isaiah said.

“Sin City Castaway,” Skip said. “I tried to buy her but Amy wouldn’t sell. Have you seen Amy? She looks exactly like my mom’s Pekingese. I hated that f*cking thing.”

“How are the pups looking?”

“Great, really great. Want to take a look? They’re in the barn.”


They followed Skip along the side of the house, a graveyard for the miscellaneous. A scarred surfboard with the fin broken off. A trash bin full of crushed Red Bull cans. Two screen doors, the screens busted out. A mountain bike with a bent fork. A golf club broken in half. Skip’s got a temper, Isaiah thought. An archery target was stapled to a piece of plywood, arrows stuck in it. Some of them all the way through.

“You into archery?” Dodson said.

“Yeah, I’m pretty good too,” Skip said. “I was going to try out for the Olympic team but I got shingles. Ever had those? They’re the worst.”

“You don’t mind my asking, why do you live out here?”

“Taxes are cheap and no neighbors, right? The dogs make a lot of noise. The bad part, there’s nothing to do. Takes me an hour to get to Redlands, two hours to get to LA. What’d it take you? More like three, right? I surf at First Point in Malibu, takes me just as long. Do you guys surf? Oh right, not a lot of surfing in the hood.”


Skip saw the moving cloud of dust when it was over by the diner. He went up to the hayloft, opened the bay door and pulled the beach towel off the Minox 15X56 hunting binoculars. They were set on a tripod and prefocused on the crossroads. A car came to a stop, two black guys in it arguing. This had to be about the rapper. Skip got Goliath out of his kennel and made him lie down in the living room. He would stay there not making a sound until he was whistled for. Skip went to the front window and watched the black guys drive up and get out of the car. It was an Audi, weird for a black guy and a big engine by the sound of it. They didn’t look threatening, out there yawning and stretching and no guns Skip could see. He got the subcompact Beretta out of the wastebasket and stuck it in his back holster. That’s when Bonnie called.

“You used a f*cking dog?” Bonnie said. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“Well, the guy’s pissed at me for referring you.”

“Tell him I’ll get it done. Don’t I always?”

“Look, just shoot the guy,” Bonnie said. “No dogs, cats, blowguns, boomerangs, or any other f*cking thing, just shoot him.”

Skip went outside and watched the black guys come up the walkway. “Don’t worry, Bonnie, I got this.”

“When?”

“Sooner than you think.”


The back of Skip’s house was as derelict as the front. The kitchen door was open, the smell of fast food and stale laundry drifting out. Isaiah was grateful Skip hadn’t invited them in. A cement square with weeds in the cracks served as a patio, a rusty hibachi was set on a cinder block. There was no place to sit down except a low beach chair with frayed yellow webbing. The squalor aside, Isaiah was uncomfortable, the feeling of loneliness like an atmosphere, unseen but all-enveloping.

“You train attack dogs?” Dodson said, looking at the heavily padded jumpsuit puddled near the hose.

“For the military,” Skip said. “Yeah, the marines take them all over the place. Europe, Asia, Germany. My dad was in Iraq, did like five or six tours. Got a Purple Heart.”

“Oh yeah? My old man too.”

The patio looked onto an exercise yard. A garbage can with a rake stuck in it was the only survivor on a battlefield of craters, mounds of dug-up dirt, dried-out palm fronds, a couple of old tires, crushed plastic soda bottles, and coils of dogshit. A ten-foot chain link fence went around the perimeter. Two wires threaded through ceramic insulators ran along the top. Worn-out palm trees gave up some shade.

“This way,” Skip said. They went around the yard. Skip didn’t seem to notice the hundreds of shell casings on the ground or the bullet holes in the wheelbarrow, metal storage shed, paint cans, and fence rails. He smiled weakly when they passed some sheets of plywood with people drawn on them, some with big lips and wide-open eyes. “Yeah, my gun club meets here,” Skip said, “they get carried away.”

In the distance, Isaiah saw a bald hill the color of a cardboard box. Small white circles dotted the hill like thumbtacks on a corkboard. “Hold on a minute,” he said, and stooped to tie his shoe.

“Can you make any money in the dog business?” Dodson said.

“Basically, no,” Skip said. “To breed my WindFlyer bitch I had to get her cleared for eyes, cardiac, thyroid, hip dysplasia, and I had to get a progesterone test to target the best conception date. Yeah, no kidding, right? And Road Master’s stud fee was two thousand bucks and get this: the semen had to be fresh-chilled and FedExed in a special box with semen extender and ice.”