Theaella

30

On Matthew’s left knee, Jerry Z’s reply arrived on the RoamZone: MCDONALD’S @ CRESSENT HEIGHTS + SUNSET TOMOROW @ 10PM DONT B LATE BRING ALL THE CASH

“We are simply not safe until this madman is in custody.” Hugh removed his black-framed glasses with soap-opera aplomb and wagged them at the captive audience. “Now, as many of you know, Melanie Hall is helping with this issue. It’s not often we get a big-case DA overseeing a robbery. She has graciously offered to update us on the investigation.”

Under the table Matthew tapped a reply to Jerry Z. NO PROBLEMO. SEE YOU TOMORROW.

Another hum on his right knee, another threat from the Unidentified Caller on the Turing Phone: AND THEN MY MEN WILL DO WORSE TO YOU.

Melanie rose slowly to address the group. Noting Matthew’s distraction, she frowned at him with concern and mouthed, You okay?

He flashed a low thumbs-up.

Left knee: I’M AFRAID WE’LL HAVE TO PUT THE DOG TO SLEEP TOMORROW.

Matthew had a moment of confusion until he saw the 323 area code. This was the animal shelter now, not Jerry Z, purveyor of stolen jewelry.

Left knee: WE’RE WAY PAST CAPACITY, AND NO ONE WANTS A FIGHT DOG.

Right knee: YOUR TIME IS COMING, BOY. I AM CONSULTING THE KAMA SUTRA FOR NEW IDEAS ABOUT HOW TO VIOLATE YOU.

Left knee: EVEN BAIT DOGS. SAD BUT TRUE.

It was like Dada poetry but even more awful.

“Can we have pets?” Matthew blurted out.

A painful silence ensued. Melanie’s hands were clasped, her shoulders squared. Clearly he’d interrupted her closing-argument-level focus. Her head was c****d more in disbelief than irritation.

“Absolutely not,” Hugh said, punching the words to make clear his irritation at the non sequitur. “This is a strictly allergy-free building. No pets, no smoking. Even the plant life in here requires a board approval process.”

Right knee: IT WILL BE LONG.

Left knee: I’M SORRY.

Right knee: AND MORE PAINFUL THAN YOU CAN POSSIBLY IMAGINE.

Left knee: THERE’S NOTHING WE CAN DO.

Across the table another tossed olive struck Peter’s chin and flew into Lorilee’s cleavage.

Peter reddened. “Oh, boy.”

Matthew used the distraction to ease back from the table and slip away.

* * *

Though his balance was still in and out, Matthew managed a shower, bracing himself against the wall. Toweling off brought forth a swell of nausea, and he rushed to sit down on the bed. He wanted to go to the bureau to get a pair of boxers, but his head hurt too much, and the city lights, diffuse through the window, started to streak.

The RoamZone indented his sheets where he’d tossed it, and he picked it up, thumbing down the brightness as a concession to his light sensitivity.

A deep, long sleep could be incautious; a patient was supposed to be awakened every hour and checked for focal neurological abnormalities that would suggest damage worse than a simple concussion.

To be safe, Matthew set the RoamZone alarm and turned the volume all the way up before collapsing onto his side. A clammy sweat enveloped him. Closing his eyes seemed to intensify the pain where his head met the pillow.

He told himself to doze lightly so the alarm could pull him out for a self-exam.

Before he went under, a parting thought glanced off his consciousness: It would’ve been nice to have someone here to look after him.

Amphetamized

Bouncing footsteps sounded inside the apartment after Matthew rang the doorbell. Then a voice: “Are you a r****t?”

“Not funny, Theaella.”

“So that’s a no, then?”

“Open the door.”

She did. Her lopsided grin faded when she saw the bag of kibble tucked under his arm. Her gaze tracked down to his hand and then along the leash he gripped to the Rhodesian ridgeback puppy panting at his side.

“Uh, no,” she said. “No way.”

Matthew said, “They’re gonna put him down.”

“Why is that my concern?”

“You need a guard dog anyway.”

“I do not need a guard dog. Plus, it’s all banged up.”

“He was a bait dog.”

“A bait dog?”

“A dog they throw to bigger dogs to tear up so they’re blood-hungry before a fight.”

“Fuckers.”

“Language. But yes.”

After his oft-broken night’s sleep, Matthew was feeling somewhat better. He could still feel the aftereffects of the concussion, but the symptoms had receded significantly, the ringing in his ears faint enough to ignore. The dog had been nicely patched up, the vet suturing his wounds and treating his raw skin. At Matthew’s request she’d removed the dog’s tracking device and stitched up that incision as well.

“What’s with the stripe down its back?” Theaella asked. “Did it have spine surgery or something?”

“No. He’s a ridgeback. They’re lion hunters from Africa.”

At this, Theaella’s eyebrows lifted a millimeter, a poker tell that she was ever so slightly impressed. She stepped back with a sigh, her shoulders sagging operatically. “Fine. You can park it here—just until it heals up. I’m not keeping it.”

“He’s a him,” Matthew said. “With the requisite parts and everything. At least most of them.”

The dog padded in at his side, nosing Theaella’s hand as she walked off. She flung her arm away. “It got schlop on me. So gross.”

In a fall of pale early-morning light, a half-eaten breakfast burrito rested on the kitchen counter next to the ubiquitous Big Gulp. Music pulsed from the pod of the workstation—some remixed dance number heavy on percussion.

“Do you ever sleep?” he asked.

“Not with you coming over at all hours bearing dogs.”

Matthew set a prescription bottle on the edge of her desk. “You’ll have to give him these antibiotics twice a day. Just mash the pill into a piece of cheese or something.”

“Great. A sick dog.”

“He’s not sick. It’s to prevent an infection from his injuries.”

She flicked a hand at the dog. “Go over there.”

The dog looked at her.

“It’s really well trained,” she said.

“He’s better trained than you.”

“That’s hysterical. And inaccurate.”

“You should name him.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“If I name it, it could get attached to me.”

“Theaella.”

“Fine. Didn’t you have a dog way back when? With Jack? What was its name?”

“Strider.”

“Like the knife company?”

“Yes. But that was before there was—”

“You’re such a guy.” She crossed her arms, displeased. “Fine. I’ll name it ‘Dog.’”

“Careful you don’t spoil him with too much affection.”