A Breath of Dead Air (The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse Book 8) (12 page)

“
T
hat’s it
?”

The guy seemed disappointed. Extremely disappointed even, if Edison’s keen perception was a guide. And he was right, of course. If a customer expects to find a tawny ball of fluff perched on the mat and instead finds a ginger ball of fluff, he is allowed to feel a little miffed. But then that was life for you. You rarely got exactly what you ordered. Not that it mattered. A Pomeranian was a Pomeranian was a Pomeranian, as Shakespeare himself had so eloquently put it. So Edison Worthington, or the New Pet Bandit (NPB®) as he liked to call himself, eyed his client with mild indulgence.

Edison was a gangling young man, who looked like a spaghetti string turned animated. His brick-red-colored hair and fair complexion had earned him the nickname Bolognese, which also happened to be his favorite dish.

“Yep, that’s it. One Pomeranian called Pronto, delivered pronto,” he quipped. “Exactly as advertised. What NPB® promises, NPB® delivers.”

Edison was standing in the corridor of the Happy Bays Inn, where he’d agreed to meet Johnny Carew. But the big guy, who was filling the doorframe with his large bulk, was displaying a lot of sales resistance.

“But that’s not even a real Pomeranian,” Johnny cried in dismay.

“Oh, but it is. The genuine article!” he assured him.

“He doesn’t look like a Pomeranian.”

“Well, I can assure you that he is. And he’s got the pedigree to prove it.”

“He looked different in the picture.”

“You must have left the app’s filter on.”

Johnny eyed him suspiciously. “Where did you get him?”

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information. Secrets of the trade, if you catch my drift. You of all people should understand that.” He smiled winningly, for he knew himself to be in the presence of greatness. “I’m a big fan of your work. You are Johnny Carew, right? The original Pet Bandit?”

“That’s me,” said the big guy with a glimmer of pride in his beady eyes.

Edison slammed his fist in the open palm of his hand. “I knew it! A real honor, Mr. Carew, sir. I’m your number one fan. So you’re retired now, huh? Made a killing while the petnapping was good and decided to call it quits?”

“Nope,” said Johnny, suddenly a lot more genial. “We were caught stealing a parrot. And then we were sentenced to community service. And then we were caught stealing a dog. And then we were sentenced to more community service. And now we’re pet groomers.”

Edison winced. “Yeah, I read about that. Nasty business.”

“It’s not so bad. I like dogs. It’s Jerry who hates dogs. He hates the way they look. He hates the way they smell. He hates the way they—”

Edison coughed, and decided to change the topic. “So you’re the great Johnny Carew! The real Pet Bandit. I followed your exploits with interest, sir. Clipped out all the articles, chuckled at your shenanigans, and then one day decided to follow in your footsteps. How about that, huh?”

“I didn’t even know we had any fans,” Johnny said, visibly flattered.

He was thawing, Edison noticed with gratification. Thawing slowly but surely. Soon he’d be ready to close the sale, which was what it all came down to. What good did it do to snatch pets if you couldn’t offload them? Under normal circs he would have contacted the original owner, after letting him stew in his own juice for a couple of days, and handed him back his pooch for the proverbial pot of gold, but this Job Vickar had gone and offed himself instead. So now he needed to find another way to monetize his endeavor.

“Now, let’s get back to the mutt,” he said, swiftly changing the topic again. He took a quick peek at his watch. He had another little job lined up for tonight and didn’t want to waste too much time on this one. “If you don’t like the way he looks you could always make some alterations.”

“You mean give him a paint job or something?”

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean. You work at a pet parlor yourself. You could do the job. Just change his color to whatever takes your fancy.”

“I dunno,” said Johnny, eyeing the dog critically. “Won’t it come out in the wash?”

“Won’t it come out in the wash,” he repeated with a chuckle. The guy was nuts! What the heck did it matter what a freakin’ mutt looked like? A mutt was a mutt, after all. They all looked the same: annoying balls of fur. And what if he wasn’t the ‘right color’? Who cared?! Of course, this was the original Pet Bandit he was dealing with. He owed this guy a ton of respect for being the trailblazer of his trade. He was like the Steve Jobs of petnappers. The Mark Zuckerberg of pooch grabbers. One of the true greats of our time.

“Here, just grab a hold of him,” he said, pressing the mutt into Johnny’s arms. “See how that feels.”

Johnny stared down at the doggie, then a smile lit up his vacuous map. “He’s very fluffy,” he cooed.

“Yeah, he’s a genuine ball of fluff, this one is,” Edison agreed. Once the potential client had the dog in his arms, the game was half won, he knew from experience. “Go on. Give him a cuddle. Don’t be shy.”

The big guy gave the dog a proper cuddle, his face practically aglow now.

“That’s the ticket. And the best part? He’s yours for five grand. What a bargain, huh? Just because I like you so much, Johnny. Just for you.”

“Five grand!” Johnny cried. “I thought you said fifty bucks!”

“The app must have dropped the last two zeroes,” Edison said. “It does that sometimes.”

The big lug was about to shove the mutt back into Edison’s arms, then seemed to reconsider. “He’s very cute, Mr. NPB. Even though he ain’t what I had in mind. And he’s a thousand times more expensive than I thought.”

“Who are you talking to, Johnny?” suddenly a raspy voice sounded from inside the room.

A thin guy appeared, his face as pale as a waxwork. Edison recognized him as Jerry Vale, the other part of the illustrious duo of pet snatchers.

“Who the hell are you?” Jerry snapped. “And what’s with the mutt?”

Edison promptly stuck out his hand. “Jerry Vale! An honor, sir!”

He’d hoped to meet one Pet Bandit tonight, and now he was meeting two. His two heroes, living in the same room, together forever, just like the three musketeers. Minus one. So the two musketeers, in fact. “I’m your biggest fan, Jerry. Like I just told Johnny, I’m such a big fan I decided to become a pet bandit myself! I hope I’ve done you proud,” he added, gesturing to the dog in Johnny’s arms.

Jerry eyed the pooch critically. Johnny was right. The guy hated dogs. But then you didn’t have to like something to be good at it. He himself hated the foul species too, but he was making a pretty good living stealing them.

“Just clear out already, will you? And take that nasty mongrel with you.”

And he was just about to snatch the dog from his partner’s grip when Johnny held it out of his reach. “No! I want this doggie, Jerry!” he stated petulantly.

“But he doesn’t even look like Spot!”

“No, he doesn’t,” Johnny agreed.

“I thought that was the whole idea?”

“Yeah, but I think I’ve changed my mind.”

“You
think
you changed your mind?” Jerry snarled. “You’ve got to
have
a mind before you can change it, Johnny! Didn’t anybody ever tell you that?”

“I guess not,” Johnny said, looking like a dull-witted child.

“Just give this knucklehead his doggie back and we’re all good.”

“No, I don’t wanna! I’m gonna keep him, Jer. I’m gonna keep this one.”

“So now you don’t want Spot anymore, is that it?”

Edison was starting to lose his patience. It was pretty obvious now why the Pet Bandits had gone out of business. They were two losers. And what was all this talk about a spot? This dog had no spots! What did they think he was? A frickin’ Dalmatian? “Look, fellas, are you gonna keep the dog or what? Cause if you don’t, I’ve got another buyer—”

“Yes, I’m keepin’ ‘im!” Johnny stated resolutely.

“No, we’re not keepin’ ‘im!” Jerry countered just as doggedly.

“Neither of you is keeping that dog!” suddenly a voice thundered, and when Edison looked up, he saw a tubby guy with a vicious scowl staring back at him, accompanied by three women and another nasty-looking guy.

U
h-oh
, he thought. The fuzz had arrived on the scene. He stared at the Pet Bandits, disappointment now tattooed across his features. “You called the cops on me! You guys actually called the cops on me! Me! A colleague! An admirer! Your biggest fan! How could you do that?!”

And then he was snatching the dog, preparatory to breaking into a run.

He hadn’t counted on Johnny’s insistence to keep the pooch, however, nor on the big guy’s brute strength. For Johnny grabbed Pronto firmly in his grasp and yanked him up and out of Edison’s reach. In the process, Edison’s hands got caught between Johnny’s forearms, and the copycat was lifted clear from the floor, now dangling a foot above the ground. Then gravity, that treacherous beast, smote him with its might, and he dropped to earth, where the coppers pounced on him, announcing their intention to perform a citizen’s arrest.

“Citizen’s arrest?” he cried, dismayed when the nasty tubby one with the face like a pug informed him he was supposed to remain silent. “What do you mean, citizen’s arrest? You ain’t cops?”

“Of course we’re no cops,” said the busty redhead. “Do we look like cops to you?”

He nodded. “You look exactly like cops!”

For some reason, this seemed to please the perky blonde in the company, for she gave him a happy smile. “Thanks, buddy. I’ve been dying to hear that all my life!” Then she turned to the redhead. “Better call Virgil, honey. This guy looks like the real deal. A real badass.”

“Oh, Pronto!” the third dame cried out, reaching for the mutt.

This one he recognized. “Say, you’re that chick from Temptation Town! The one who goes around seducing all those guys!”

The woman eyed him viciously, her expression a far cry from the sultry looks he was used to seeing her dispense on the show. “I’m the rightful owner of this dog, and you’re a filthy thief!” she spat.

“Hold your horses, babe. This is Senator Vickar’s dog, not yours!”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and regarded him haughtily. “Job Vickar was my father, and since he’s now dead, Pronto belongs to me.”

A loud wail of anguish sounded, and Edison saw that it had emerged from the towering giant called Johnny Carew, who still stood cuddling Pronto in his massive arms. “But I want this doggie!” he cried, dismayed. “Mr. Falcone, sir, can I have this doggie?! I promise I’ll never try to steal yours again. I know I wanted to steal Spot 2 because I wanted to take revenge on you for getting us caught when we stole Spot 1 and also for firing us that time, but I promise I’ll never even look at Spot 2 again if I can just keep Pronto.”

“You moron!” Chazz cried. “You tried to snatch my dog? After you went and killed the first one?!”

“Well, actually…” Johnny said, only now realizing he’d put himself in a tight spot. “It’s just that I’ve come to love Spot so much, Mr. Falcone, sir. At first I just wanted to steal him to spite you, but since you started bringing him into the shop every week, I’ve grown really fond of him.” He sighed, his eyes growing moist. “That furry face. Those trusty eyes. That sweet, sweet smile. I even like the color of his mucus.”

“Why don’t you just hire these two bozos again, Dad?” the other guy asked. He looked like a dog too, Edison decided. Like one of those annoyingly cute Labradors. “You know they’ll just run into all kinds of trouble if you don’t. And they’re just the kind of guys you need if you’re going to be president.”

The pug-faced one studied the Lab-like one thoughtfully, then nodded. “You’re right, son. As president of the United States I’m gonna need guys I can trust. Guys who’ll run the gauntlet with me. Who’ll stick with me through thick and thin.” He turned to Johnny and Jerry. “How about it? Wanna work for me again?”

Johnny’s face lit up. “Sure, Chazz!”

“For starters, you can look after Spot for me, Johnny.”

“Oh, boy!” Johnny cried. “Thank you, Mr. Falcone!”

“Yeah, that’s all great,” said Jerry, a little more subdued. “But if you don’t mind, Mr. Falcone, I’d rather have nothing more to do with dogs from now on. Ever again. I kinda had it with the breed, if you catch my drift.”

“Fair enough,” Chazz Falcone agreed. “Johnny, you’ll be my pooch handler from now on, and Jerry, you can start planning my election campaign. I’m appointing you my new campaign manager.”

“Good thinking, Dad,” Chazz’s son murmured.

It appeared as if everybody was happy now, except for Jezebel Baskerville, who still stood glowering at him. “Why did you kill my father?”

He gulped. “Kill your father?! Babe, I don’t even kill mosquitoes if I can help it! Of course if I happen to turn over in the middle of the night and squash one, that’s a different story, but I’ve never killed one on purpose yet!”

“He sounds sincere,” the full-figured redhead allowed.

“Yes, he’s telling the truth,” Jezebel agreed grudgingly.

“Of course I’m telling the truth! Why would I go and kill my meal ticket?! When I stole that nice pooch over there, I never thought its owner was going to off himself within twenty-four hours. If I had, I never would have snatched him. That’s the whole point: you steal ‘em, then you return ‘em to the rightful owner, for a big, fat finder’s fee. It’s the way of the Pet Bandits. Ain’t that right, fellas?”

Johnny and Jerry eyed him stonily, and Edison saw what was going on here. Now that they were working for the pug-faced fellow, they were too high and mighty all of a sudden to help out a fellow Pet Bandit.

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary when you snatched Pronto?” Jezebel asked.

He thought for a moment. “Define out of the ordinary.”

She sighed. “Did you see anyone else sneaking around my father’s house? Anyone suspicious?”

He narrowed his eyes. He might be a pet snatcher, but that didn’t mean he was stupid. “What’s in it for me?”

The others stared at each other for a moment, then suddenly the ugly fat guy who seemed to think he was going to be the next president of the USA attached himself to his lapels and gave him a vigorous shake. “Answer the question or my foot is going to be what’s in it for you, you piece of scum!”

“All right, all right, all right! You don’t have to get personal! I did see a couple of guys sneaking around out there. They were in a van parked in front of the house while one was scoping out the neighborhood. I figured they were competitors, but they didn’t seem all that interested in the pooch.”

“What did they look like? Do you know them?” this Falcone character continued, still attached to his lapels like a mollusk.

“Big, burly guys? No necks and no sense of humor?” He gestured with his head to Johnny. “Like him, but with buzzcuts and a real attitude problem. I ran into one of ‘em, and he told me to get lost.” He thought for a moment. “I seem to remember there was some logo printed on the side of the van. Red flowers with something written underneath.” He thought some more, then brightened. “Hey, or I could just show you the pictures I took, right?” He waited until Chazz released him, then took out his smartphone and scrolled to the pictures he’d taken that day. “Here, that’s them, see? Right there!” He stabbed a finger at his phone, and it was promptly snatched from his grasp by Chazz.

“Checkered Daffodils, Gardening Since 1999,” he read.

“Yeah, they didn’t look like no gardeners to me,” Edison remarked. “More like bodyguards or something.”

“Or Secret Service men,” Jezebel said slowly.

He shrugged. “Sure. Whatever.” He stared at his phone. “Can I have that back now? Future Mr. President, sir?”

It was a simple question, but it took some deliberation on the part of these party crashers to get a straight answer. Finally the pictures he’d taken were transferred to the phone of the guy they called Rick, and he was told not to leave town. So they
were
cops, after all. He knew it! That’s what he got from jinxing himself by getting in touch with these loser Pet Bandits.

Those guys were burned, after all, and now they’d burned him, too!

And as he started to walk away, like Bruce Banner on The Incredible Hulk, he silently swore he was shaking the dust of this crummy little town off his feet. The world had seen the last of the New Pet Bandit (NPB®). From now on he was just Bolognese again. Nabbing pets just wasn’t worth the aggravation.