The Drifter (Peter Ash #1)(23)

As handguns went, the 1911 was big and heavy, but it was very similar to the sidearm he’d had in the service, and he was used to it. It felt like an extension of his hand. He didn’t have a holster for it, though, and the gun tucked into the back of his pants was awkward. He didn’t want to have to do a lot of walking like that, always adjusting, making sure it didn’t fall out. So he left it under the seat. How bad could the neighborhood be?

It was full dark now, and getting colder. The wind murmured in the leafless maples and locusts. One thing about Milwaukee, the streets were lined with trees.

Three young men stood on the far corner, talking in low voices and passing a skinny hand-rolled cigarette. They watched Peter get out of the truck but didn’t stop the conversation or the progress of the joint. One of them pulled out a phone and poked at it. In Iraq, this would have made Peter worry about an ambush or an IED. He told himself this wasn’t Iraq.

The dog whined in the cargo box, so he let it out and took the rope in his hand. The animal was excited, ears up and tugging at the leash.

Peter figured he’d let the dog pee, then put it back in the truck before starting to knock on doors. Nobody would talk with this ugly monster beside him. But rather than sniff the bushes, the dog pulled him eagerly down the darkened street.

“Mingus!” Ahead, a woman stumped along the sidewalk, bent with age. She had a furled umbrella in one hand, using it like a cane, and a plastic grocery sack in the other. Her hair was tied up in a tribal scarf, the bright colors muted by the night. The dog pulled harder, a hundred and fifty pounds of determination. “Charles Mingus, that you?” Her voice was a scratchy shout. She was two houses away.

“Ma’am?” Peter called. He had never been mistaken for a dead black jazz musician before.

“Not you, fool,” said the woman scornfully as the dog launched itself forward at her. Peter was pulled nearly off his feet before the rope leash slid, burning, from his grasp.

Shit shit shit. He dove after the dog, thankful for the stick occupying those murderous teeth, trying for a grip on the wood or the rope while the dog lunged at the woman and blows from the umbrella rained about Peter’s head. The old woman was stronger than she looked. Most of them are.

Finally he had the dog in a headlock, down on his knees with the leash wrapped around his hand, but she was still swinging the umbrella like a samurai on acid.

“Who the fuck are you?” said the old woman, not even breathing hard as Peter wrestled with the dog. “And what have you done to poor Charles Mingus?”

Oh, thought Peter. She wasn’t crazy.

Charles Mingus was the dog. She knew the dog.

She knew the dog.

He caught the umbrella in one hand and held it still. It was harder than he expected.

“Ma’am? How do you know the dog?”

She turned toward a small duplex house. “I need a goddamn drink.”

She didn’t look to see if he was following.

—

Her name was Miss Rosetta Phelps, and housekeeping clearly wasn’t a priority. Her kitchen was a narrow blue clutter of unwashed pots and empty bottles.

The white static foamed up and the smell of the dog filled the room, although Peter couldn’t entirely fault the dog. He stuck his head through doorways to see the layout and find the exits, the static always looking for more ways to get outside.

Miss Rosetta didn’t leave the kitchen. The grocery sack she’d been carrying held a plastic half-gallon of Early Times, undamaged in the scuffle. At a small corner table crowded with dirty dishes, she poured a long, dark splash into a stained water glass and drained it in a gulp.

She smacked her lips. “Oh, that’s nice.”

Four fingers of cheap whiskey and she drank it down like iced tea. Peter made a mental note: don’t fuck with old ladies.

She reached for a boning knife. “C’mere, Mingus, you poor bastard.”

The dog sat at her feet, wagging his tail. “I’m glad he has a name,” said Peter. “I was thinking of calling him Cupcake.”

“Huh,” said Miss Rosetta, looking sideways at Peter. “You don’t look like no retard,” she said. “But I been wrong before.” She took hold of the dog by the upper jaw, ignoring the snorts and the inch-long teeth, and started sawing at the Kevlar rope holding the stick in place. “Hold still, dummy.”

“You sure you want to do that? This dog tried to kill me once.”

Miss Rosetta ignored him. The knife was very sharp. She was already unwinding the rope. The dog dropped the chewed length of handrail on the cracked linoleum with a surprising delicacy, licked his chops experimentally, then put his paws up on the woman’s lap and licked her chin.

“Mingus, behave yourself,” she said, rapping him on the nose.

When he slurped her right ear, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around his neck, giggling like a schoolgirl. “Dog, you ain’t even bought me dinner.”

Eventually the dog came to Peter and nosed his hands.

Peter pushed the nose away.

The dog came back.

Peter pushed him away again.

When the dog returned a third time, he moved so fast that he had Peter’s wrist between his jaws before Peter knew he had done it.

The pressure of the teeth was perfectly calibrated. The hardest grip possible without quite puncturing the skin. The hot, wet tongue like a rare steak fresh from the pan. The wolfish eyes locked on his face.