Red Dog by Jason Miller Page B

against former business partners that led to death threats and the whole nine. Little shit had his fingers in so many people’s eyes I’m guessing he carried insurance against pitchfork mobs. Tell the truth, I think Lindley was surprised it took this long for one of them to do something about it.”
    â€œYeah, but which ‘it’?”
    â€œGood question,” he said. “But not really yours to answer. Now get yourself on home. Make things right with Anci. Get her some of that orange soda she likes. Maybe some pizza. She like pizza?”
    â€œAll kids like pizza.”
    â€œOkay, then. Soda. Pizza. Get it done. That’s an order.”
    I didn’t have time to question the chain of command. He hung up.
    And looking back now, I know that’s what I should have done. I should have collected Anci and the bottled sodas and some pizza. I like pizza pretty good my own self, so there was that, too. I should have made some kind of reparations to Lew and Eun Hee Mandamus and then gone on home to hide under my bed until the police cleared the case. Hindsight may not be 20/20, exactly, but it sure seems a lot clearer now. Right then, though, I was mad enough to chew nails and spit out staples. Somehow or other, I’d played a part in Dennis Reach’s murder. I didn’t know what part and I didn’t know how. I didn’t know why he’d been killed, and I didn’t know what or whether that red dog had to do with any of it. And I didn’t think I wanted those questions haunting the inside of my head for the rest of my life. Plus, there was the small matter of avoiding an indictment for capital murder.
    I made a U-turn and drove Lew Mandamus’s truck back toward Loves Corner.
    W ES T REMBLE, THE SKINNY WEED DEALER, DIDN’T TRY TO shoot me in the head this time. That was a relief. He was wearing more than tighty-whities this time, too. That was an even bigger relief. He opened the door and smiled a sour smile as though to say my reappearance was something he’d expected. He took my arm and led me into his house andshut the door behind us and locked it. He turned the bolt and put the chain on. The curtains were closed, but he closed them again.
    â€œLook at you out there,” he said. “Standing there. It’s like you’re trying to get seen.”
    â€œSeen? Seen by who? There ain’t anybody around.”
    Just then, he wouldn’t have taken a bishop’s word for it. Living where he did, he probably could have heard cops coming ten miles up the road, but as far as he was concerned they might as well have been hiding in his pants.
    â€œThere was a silver pickup out there a while ago. Last night, too. It’s been watching the house.”
    â€œA silver pickup? Any idea who it might belong to?”
    He shrugged but didn’t answer. “I remember you,” he said instead. “You’re the one stuck me in the butt.”
    â€œYou’re the one wanted to shoot me in the head.”
    He wanted to forget that part of it, I guess. He shook it off and said, “What was that stuff? In the needles, I mean.”
    â€œDiazepam, I think. Valium. They use it as an animal sedative sometimes.”
    â€œWell, it worked pretty good, whatever it was. I kinda wish I had some more.”
    â€œMe, too. For you, I mean. You’re making me a little anxious.”
    He didn’t want to be rude, and he didn’t want to make a guest anxious. He might try to put another hole in your head, but he still had those kinds of house manners. He sat down stiffly on an ottoman and grabbed his knees. I sat on the couch.
    He said, “You aren’t the police. What are you, like a rent-a-cop or something?”
    â€œMall police,” I said. “But our powers extend way outside the malls now.”
    â€œMalls have taken over everything,” he said, and frowned at the regrettable state of it.
    â€œMaybe remember that next