—DELETED— “Pony, this is Leo Majette. What’s your twenty?” Pete Murphy sits parked outside a 24-‐hour fast-‐food joint on the 0400 hour of another day, windshield wipers going, a slow beat. “Pony, over.” Pete’s cop-‐brain says he should radio his location. His self-‐respect refuses to answer to that fucking nickname. “Listen. Finn wants you, ten-‐hundred block of California. Can you get here quick?” Sergeant Finn has never called Pete by anything other than his name. There are still a few guys like that. “I can get there.” “Before I have to sniff the back of the toilets myself, or what?” “I’ll be there.” He shuts off his radio, muscles through the intersection at Chicago and Western, checks the rearview. “You alive back there?” Nothing from the backseat. He reaches back, rattles the cage. “Hey: Butch? You being morose?” Still nothing. “You want to work?” The keyword. The dog rears his sleep-‐doped head and barks twice, affirmative, then forces himself partway through the partition. Pete scratches a stiff ear and says, “You should know, though: Jetty’s an asshole.” Butch yowls low and presses his head into Pete’s shoulder. “You’re right. Fuck him.” Pete hits the gas. Five minutes later they’re in front of the Clipper, a west-‐side bar where the twenty-‐something in-‐crowd braves Insane Dragon gang territory for old-‐brand beer and uncool country music. It’s just past four in the morning and the scene looks like a TV shoot: extras standing around in rain and raid gear, the rest of the cop-‐crew trying to get the cameras rolling. Apart from the Clipper, the block is marked by the absence of things—barred, black windows, boarded-‐up business fronts. A super-‐white police spotlight makes the front of the bar look fake, like they built a whole set just for this bust. There should be a laugh track. Pete kills the wipers and parks; Butch backs off to circle his cage, leaving a nice trail of drool on his handler’s vest. “That’s wonderful, Butch.” Pete says this most nights; it’s just another something he says. He doesn’t really mind the slobber. The Clipper’s sign advertises air conditioning, a neon cue for Pete to crack his window, check the temperature outside. It’s as cold as it will get and it always seems this cold, this time of night. Morning. Night. The space in between. It’s the worst time. He thinks about his kids. About McKenna, really. She is her mother, back when her mother was at once terrific and terrible. A sharp-‐clawed cat.
From the black-‐suited cavalry at the bar’s entrance, Majette appears. He’s in plainclothes and stalks brick-‐shouldered toward Pete’s squad, hands in fists. The blue glare from a perimeter car’s sole rolling light bar strobes over his bald head. “Jetty,” Pete says, out of the car. “What’s the big deal?” Majette’s dark eyes shine. “We’re riding a warrant for the bartender. Name’s Robert Fletcher. He’s fronting cash from the business’ nightly drop to turn some crack around in the neighborhood. I got a CI—a junkie who wants to plead down— he’s the one gives me the heads-‐up.” Majette has a habit of telling everything in the present tense. It bothers some people. Those people should know that Majette thinks a junkie he talked to six years ago qualifies as today’s John Doe if he needs one. That’s something maybe worth being bothered about. “So,” Pete says. “We’re here for the stash?” “I fucking hope so. We can’t nail a bar in a neighborhood like this for bad money.” “You been following the money?” “Shitchyes. I got guys on the street making marked buys for weeks. Money shows up back here, in change. So I got different guys in here spending different marked dough. All that disappears. That’s how I figure his racket. He uses the night’s drop to buy, sells the cavvy for twice the price, reimburses the bar’s purse, and takes home the other half. That’s the money. Simple. But at some point, he’s got to have the stash. I mean, we aren’t talking futures here.” “How do you know when he pulls the drop?” “The money moves when he’s got back-‐to-‐back shifts. My CI says Fletcher calls it ‘movie night.’ At closing time, some regulars and maybe the band and presumably whoever’s buying and selling stick around. He runs a cash bar, shows a flick. And also somehow moves a shitload of product.” “You have guys in there past closing time?” “Are you kidding? Half those nimrods on the sidewalk are mine and none of ‘em’s seen a thing all night. Listen. The money’s here and the drugs must be too. Can you make like a duck?” “Which one’s the CI?” Pete scans the sidewalk lineup where a dozen or so leftover bar patrons sit, asses in a row. The cops couldn’t be more obvious: the windbreakers, the lace-‐up cross-‐trainers. The hipsters are easy to pick out, too, because they’re pissed. There is nobody, however, who looks like a junkie. “He gets spooked,” Majette says, breaking eye contact. “We had to get him out.” He crosses his arms and stands on his back leg, a physical split between acting casual and maintaining authority. “You know what he says to me though? He says Fletcher can’t keep up with demand. Sales are through the roof and the bar doesn’t bring in enough cash on account of all these kids carry anymore is credit cards. You believe that?” “Which part?” Nothing against the John Doe, but the guy seems to be able to connect a lot of dots for a no-‐show crack addict. “You wait. Day’s coming when dealers’ll have mobile Visa terminals. It’ll be kicked up to white-‐collar crime, one big fucking cyber-‐chase. Acourse, by then, you’ll be merited to commander or some shit, so you don’t have to think about it.”
“Let me take a quick look,” Pete says, backing out before Majette corners him, forces a fight. Pete lets his K9 emblem do the talking to the uniform at the door, nameplate Sorrell. Pete doesn’t know him, and hopes it’s mutual. Inside, every light switch has been flipped, whiting out business hours’ usual boozy gauze. On the left, red booths snuggle the wall below paintings that look like they were rescued from some beach house long ago, the faded tropics, the colors washed to pastels. On the right, vinyl-‐covered stools belly up to the back-‐lit bar and in between, low chairs cluster around a dozen Formica tables where half-‐empty glasses sit sweating, abandoned. The AC kicks on and sets a chill on Pete’s shoulders where his uniform absorbed the rain. Three of four ceiling fans spin the cold air at a lazy, clockwise clip. For Butch’s nose, the fans will be a trick. If he picks up a scent, he may not alert in the right spot; the air in the place is as good and mixed up as the drinks. Pete shines his flashlight underneath the tables to check for broken glass, food, a spill—anything that might distract or hurt Butch. He snakes his way through the place and concludes the search having collected a few errant straws, crumpled cocktail napkins and one purple blob of chewing gum. Back outside, the rain picks up as Pete pops the trunk to retrieve Butch’s leash and blue Kong—his find-‐reward. He pockets the toy, releases the rear locks, and opens the back door. Butch sits there, his most pitiful face. “C’mon, Butch,” Pete says, hooking the lead into a pinch collar, “before you melt.” The dog looks up. He doesn’t want to go. “Führen!” Pete commands, German, meant to appeal to the dog’s work brain. Butch obeys, front paws on the wet pavement just a band of lightning cuts across the western sky. Majette is stationed just inside at the foot of the bar faking patience while Sorrell is behind him, saying, “…in the ladies’ bathroom. She felt a cold draft and heard someone outside the stall and when she came out, there was nobody. Just this cloud of perfume—” “Your dog afraid of ghosts?” Majette asks. “Because Sorrell here says his girlfriend says this place is haunted.” Sorrell runs knuckles over his mustache, awkward and thin and probably kept in protest of last week’s rank-‐wide reprimand about sideburns, beards and goatees. “My girlfriend’s friend,” he says. “I don’t doubt the ghost,” Majette says, “what I have a hard time believing is that you have a girlfriend.” He turns to Pete. “Okay, how about you and your nosy dog get on with the show?” From behind Majette, Sorrell asks, “What kind of dog is he?” Majette says, “Oh boy, here we go. You bring hula hoops for him to jump through, Pony?”
Pete knows Majette thinks K9 is bullshit. That the dogs are trained above all else to please their masters. And that if an alert is rewarded one-‐hundred percent of the time, and there are no repercussions for a false alert, the dog will sooner turn up a packet of mustard than come away with nothing. Butch sits at Pete’s feet, waiting, tail sweeping the floor. Of course he wants to please his master. And yes, he’s had some false alerts. But how can anybody blame Butch for an honest try? It’s not like the dog made up a John Doe to get a warrant. “He’s a Shepherd Malinois mix,” Pete tells Sorrell. “Is it true they can find things underwater?” “What is this, a fucking ‘Nova’ episode?” asks Majette. “Butch is trained for narcotics,” Pete says. “But I do know a search and rescue dog who found a body in a seam below the Yorkville dam.” “Because searching downstream is counterintuitive,” says Majette. “Kendall County sheriffs had been looking for weeks. They were twenty miles downstream from where the dog alerted.” Pete unhooks Butch’s collar, says, “Ferse,” while he elbow-‐winds the leash. Sorrell asks, “Is that German?” Majette says, “You can pet the fucking dog after he’s done, okay? Do your job. Watch the door.” Butch looks sideways at Majette, the lowest growl until he gets control of his instinct and goes quiet. “Yes,” Pete says, “it’s German.” He turns to the dog. “Butch: rauschgift. Suche!” Butch turns a circle and they’re off. Pete starts him at the front booth, directing by hand: “Check here. What about here.” Majette follows from six paces back; he’s supposed to watch out for Pete because Pete’s watching Butch. The dog checks each corner, around every booth, under every seat. They work at a quick pace, and Pete watches the dog to see if he begins to follow his own nose instead. “How about here.” Nope: Butch keeps going. They clear four booths, no alert, when lightning flashes in the front windows. Butch stops to look at Pete, ears back, nervous. The thunder comes a minute later, a slow rumble. “What, does he smell a ghost?” Majette asks. Another strike of lightning refracts in the dog’s wary eyes. “Butch,” Pete says, angling him away from Majette, along the back wall, the old heat register. “How about here?” “Hey, Sorrell,” Majette calls out. “Your lady in white? She reminds me: you want to know an unbelievable story, you ought to ask Murphy about the judge.” Pete’s brain jerks left, what the fuck?! as Butch’s nose pulls right, something in the air making him zigzag and start to pant, both precursors to an alert. “What judge?” Sorrell asks. Butch doubles back, center of the bar’s dance floor beneath the stage, nose in Majette’s direction as the cop approaches in wide-‐stance steps, making room for himself. “That would be the honorable Katherine Crawford,” he says.
You parasite, Pete thinks, and he’s about to say so, but Butch sits down and starts to bark: his alert. “What’s is it?” Pete asks. “Rauschgift?” Butch turns a circle, sits on the same square of dance floor and barks some more. “Show me,” Pete says, because there is nothing there. “That right there,” Majette says, “that is impressive. He found the ghost. Now, can we please find the crack?” Butch keeps barking, nose up and skewed right. Pete follows the dog’s alert to the non-‐working ceiling fan. He knew ventilation would be an issue. He figures it’s false, and they should shut off the AC, and work the room again. Except that assumes Majette wants the help. Which he doesn’t. So. “Butch, come.” Pete coaxes him toward a thick mesh-‐wire casement that runs along the lip of the stage, probably housing sound equipment. “Check here.” Butch follows, checks, and immediately returns to his initial alert position. He barks once. He expects the Kong. “Looks like your dog wants to dance,” says Majette. Pete wonders if Butch is reacting to the thunder or to his handler’s creeping frustration. There is nothing there. “Show me.” Butch eyes Pete’s pocket. He thinks he found something. He wants the Kong. “Okay,” Majette says. “I’m calling it.” “He’s alerting,” Pete says. “We’re missing something.” “You’re missing something.” Majette takes another wide-‐step onto the dance floor. Butch doesn’t like the move; he backs up. “You’re really stripping the screw here, Jetty,” Pete says. “Be careful.” He means about Butch. He finds the end of the leash, clicks the latch with his thumb. “It’s not the dog I think’s got it wrong. It’s you.” “I get that,” Pete says. His instinct is a right hook. “Listen,” Majette says. “I don’t care who you fucked or who you fucked over to get where you are.” He raises his hand. “What I care is that you are here now, fucking me. Wasting my time.” He points at Pete— And Pete says “Don’t—” —as Butch lunges. “Stop!” Pete’s command must register just before the dog’s jaws lock, because he immediately releases and falls away, a piece of Majette’s sleeve, and probably skin, between his teeth. “Jesus!” From the front, Sorrell says, “I’ll get the Sarge,” and slips out. “This is,” Majette says, stunned. “This is…” It’s fucked, Pete thinks. And it’s Majette’s fault. He finds a corner, takes Butch, gets on his knees and pulls the dog in. He scratches his ribs and whispers that he’s a good boy and does he know what a good boy he is? and that he’ll be okay.
Butch sniffs around Pete’s pocket, still wondering about the Kong. Pete can’t reward him, but he should. He recognized threat. He defended his handler. And lately, it seems like he’s the only one who will. When thunder comes this time Butch shakes all over, nerves hamstrung. “It’s okay,” Pete says again, and tries to believe it. Copyright © 2013 by Macmillan