Miszuâmy deek or your dog. And the dog is dead and I am alive." To emphasize the point, he shook his penis vigorously.
Mrs. Brandberg calmed down and considered her options. Her beloved Wambli was dead and she wanted to find his killers, to avenge his murder. Yet she also realized that Genc was probably right. If the police became involved she might lose him. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, OOOH! SHPIRT! reverberating inside her head.
"I'll call the mayor. What kind of a city is he running?"she said. The mayor had recently been eager to channel Brandberg Foundation resources into cultural programs for the city's schools.
"Same problem, Miszu. I'm the only one who can tell anybody the facts, and I must be the nonseeable man."
"Oh, God. Oh, God. I need to think. Have Jennie bring coffee to the den."
Sue became calmer and asked Genc, as they drank coffee, to repeat over and over the details of the previous night's incident. By the third repetition, she realized there was nothing Genc could have done and ceased blaming him. Though she was utterly mystified as to why three strange men would kill her dog.
"Wambli was so perfect, Genc. A gentle Staffordshire terrier bred by monks. You know that."
"Yes. Good dog."
"He was the head of his class in obedience school. First on the American Kennel behavior test. Everyone loved him. Never hurt anyone. Did he, Genc?"
"No, Miszu," Genc said dutifully, though remembering episodes in Central Park where it had taken all his considerable strength to keep Wambli from fighting and biting other dogs.
"My poor, dear Staffy. My poor Wambli."
Sue sighed and then stared off in the distance, focusing on the Jasper Johns on the wall. Except that now she could barely make out the hazy numerals in the painting; it was like failing an eye examination. Then she spoke again to Genc.
"You're right, my dearest. I don't want to endanger you. I don't want to lose you. But I'm going to find those monsters who killed my dog. I don't know how, but I will."
Then she had an inspiration. On the top of a pile of newspapers on the coffee table was a copy of the latest
Surveyor.
"That's it!" she exclaimed, pinching Genc's thigh. "Justin Boyd can get to the bottom of this. And you'll be strictly off the record."
"Off the record?"
"Never mind. Justin will get me the answers I want."
EIGHT
E veryone agreed that Justin Boyd was an interesting specimen. He had made his reputation as the swashbuckling editor of one of London's steamy tabloids, credited with bringing down three cabinet ministers, both Labour and Conservative. In no case did the downfall have anything to do with the competence of the official involvedâbigamy, buggery and wife bashing had been the fatal charges, all detailed and proclaimed in screaming headlines in his crudely irresponsible daily.
A short man, he perspired a lot, but even through the softening sweat one could see a hard face. He usually wore a brown suit (despite Lord Chesterfield's admonition that no gentleman wore a garment of that color) of a mysterious shiny fabric, with cuffless trousers, which had been modish in London a generation earlier. Despite the Oxbridge overlay to his cockney accent, he was, deep inside, a bounder.
Appearances were deceiving; Justin had a razor-sharp mind, the razor honed to slit the throats of any who challenged him. And his stubby but spidery hands at least figuratively had a clawlike quality, with which they calculatedly ratcheted their owner upward in the business and social circles that mattered to him.
Finding friends in his new home had not been difficult; there were plenty of other strivers who understood and protected him (in exchange for approving stories or mentions planted by him in
The Surveyor
)
.
Justin had been lured to the colonies by an obscure New Jersey millionaire (or probably, billionaire) named Ethan Meyner. Thelatter had made a fortune selling replacement automobile mufflers throughout America (and later
Mrs. Brandberg calmed down and considered her options. Her beloved Wambli was dead and she wanted to find his killers, to avenge his murder. Yet she also realized that Genc was probably right. If the police became involved she might lose him. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, OOOH! SHPIRT! reverberating inside her head.
"I'll call the mayor. What kind of a city is he running?"she said. The mayor had recently been eager to channel Brandberg Foundation resources into cultural programs for the city's schools.
"Same problem, Miszu. I'm the only one who can tell anybody the facts, and I must be the nonseeable man."
"Oh, God. Oh, God. I need to think. Have Jennie bring coffee to the den."
Sue became calmer and asked Genc, as they drank coffee, to repeat over and over the details of the previous night's incident. By the third repetition, she realized there was nothing Genc could have done and ceased blaming him. Though she was utterly mystified as to why three strange men would kill her dog.
"Wambli was so perfect, Genc. A gentle Staffordshire terrier bred by monks. You know that."
"Yes. Good dog."
"He was the head of his class in obedience school. First on the American Kennel behavior test. Everyone loved him. Never hurt anyone. Did he, Genc?"
"No, Miszu," Genc said dutifully, though remembering episodes in Central Park where it had taken all his considerable strength to keep Wambli from fighting and biting other dogs.
"My poor, dear Staffy. My poor Wambli."
Sue sighed and then stared off in the distance, focusing on the Jasper Johns on the wall. Except that now she could barely make out the hazy numerals in the painting; it was like failing an eye examination. Then she spoke again to Genc.
"You're right, my dearest. I don't want to endanger you. I don't want to lose you. But I'm going to find those monsters who killed my dog. I don't know how, but I will."
Then she had an inspiration. On the top of a pile of newspapers on the coffee table was a copy of the latest
Surveyor.
"That's it!" she exclaimed, pinching Genc's thigh. "Justin Boyd can get to the bottom of this. And you'll be strictly off the record."
"Off the record?"
"Never mind. Justin will get me the answers I want."
EIGHT
E veryone agreed that Justin Boyd was an interesting specimen. He had made his reputation as the swashbuckling editor of one of London's steamy tabloids, credited with bringing down three cabinet ministers, both Labour and Conservative. In no case did the downfall have anything to do with the competence of the official involvedâbigamy, buggery and wife bashing had been the fatal charges, all detailed and proclaimed in screaming headlines in his crudely irresponsible daily.
A short man, he perspired a lot, but even through the softening sweat one could see a hard face. He usually wore a brown suit (despite Lord Chesterfield's admonition that no gentleman wore a garment of that color) of a mysterious shiny fabric, with cuffless trousers, which had been modish in London a generation earlier. Despite the Oxbridge overlay to his cockney accent, he was, deep inside, a bounder.
Appearances were deceiving; Justin had a razor-sharp mind, the razor honed to slit the throats of any who challenged him. And his stubby but spidery hands at least figuratively had a clawlike quality, with which they calculatedly ratcheted their owner upward in the business and social circles that mattered to him.
Finding friends in his new home had not been difficult; there were plenty of other strivers who understood and protected him (in exchange for approving stories or mentions planted by him in
The Surveyor
)
.
Justin had been lured to the colonies by an obscure New Jersey millionaire (or probably, billionaire) named Ethan Meyner. Thelatter had made a fortune selling replacement automobile mufflers throughout America (and later
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