Second Hand (Tucker Springs) (13 page)

As soon as he could escape, El chain-smoked his way down Rosa’s street, but once he made it to the Light District, his phone rang. It was Rosa.

“What the fuck, El? I don’t want the party at my house!”

“Hey, I was thinking on my feet. Mom had already invited Noah—”

“Then how about I uninvited him later, or something that doesn’t upend my life, huh?”

El winced. “I know. Sorry, Rosa. I’ll help you clean.”

“You’ll do
all
the cleaning, you bastard. But first you’re going to tell me who you’re bringing to the party.”

He stopped dead in the middle of the street, panic shafting through him. “Nobody. I was just bullshitting there, trying to sell the reason for moving the party.”

“No, that’s the bullshit, what you just said to me. When you said you wanted to invite someone,
that
was the truth.”

Goddamn Rosa and her ability to see right through him. “It’s nobody. Just this guy that’s been hanging around the shop. He’s a friend.”

“A friend you want to fuck. Interesting. What’s his name?”

Fuck.
“Bob.”

“You’re lying,” Rosa declared, sounding pleased with herself. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it out of you while you’re cleaning.” She hung up.

Fuck, fuck, fuck,
fuck.

Though it hadn’t been his original intention, El headed to Lights Out instead of back to the shop. When Denver greeted him at the door, the bouncer’s expression changed from welcoming to something heavy and sober.

“Somebody die?” he asked.

“No, but I have the feeling I’m going to wish I had.” An idea struck him, and he seized it. “Denver, what are you doing for the Fourth?”

“Working here, what do you think?” He gave El a funny look. “Why?”

“Nothing. I just had this—” He grimaced and shook his head. “Forget it.”

Denver grinned at him. “You’re looking nervous, buddy. Any chance this nothing has to do with Strawberry? Because if it means I get to watch you with him again, I’ll get Jase to find someone else to man the door that night.”

Murmuring “Fuck you” under his breath, El nudged past his friend and a gaggle of giggling girls playing tourist, heading straight for Jase and the bar and the alcohol.

I arrived at the office on Monday a few minutes early to unlock, as I usually did. A large cardboard box waited on the sidewalk in front of the door. My first thought was that it was odd for the mailman to have arrived already, but then I heard a scratching from inside.

The cardboard shook, and then I heard something else: a high-pitched, desperate whine.

“Oh no.” I got down on my knees, tore open the box, and was immediately attacked by a wriggling ball of black and white fur. “Puppy, who left you here? Are you okay?”

The dog seemed unharmed and eager to be free. “Where’d you come from?” I asked, and the dog lapped its little tongue ineffectually in the direction of my face.

There was a note inside the box.

This is MoJo. She’s a good dog, but I have to go home, and I can’t take her with me.

Please take care of her.

“MoJo?” I said to the dog, and her wriggling went into overdrive. She was a small dog, and shaggy. My guess was that she was a Lhasa Apso mix, not more than two years old. She had ears as expressive as Yoda’s and about the same shape. “Poor MoJo. How long have you been here? I can’t believe your owner left you! What a bad, mean owner.” I was talking like an idiot to her, but she clearly liked it. Her little tail whipped back and forth so fast it dragged the bulk of her backside along with it. “Are you hungry? Want something to eat?”

By the time Nick arrived, MoJo was happily snarfing down a can of dog food like she hadn’t eaten in days.

“Where’d he come from?” Nick asked.

“She,” I corrected. I showed him the note. “Somebody left her on the step.”

He shook his head. “I’ll never get why people do that. There’s a shelter two miles away.”

“They probably worry they won’t get adopted, but think if they bring them here, you’ll take care of them.”

“Looks like this one’s on you,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m maxed out on dogs. I have three, which is already one more than my lease allows, and they’re all big. They’d think that little thing was nothing but an interactive squeaky toy.”

“I can’t have dogs at my house,” I said.

“Too bad.” Nick shrugged. “Well, she can hang out here today. I’ll drop her at the shelter on my way home.”

The shelter. Yes. That was logical. That was the right thing to do. A good dog like her would be adopted in no time.

Probably.

And if not . . .

Well, maybe it was a no-kill shelter? Maybe I should call and ask?

MoJo finished her breakfast and spent half the morning attacking my shoelaces, and most of the afternoon napping at my feet, and meanwhile I spent every free moment picturing her locked in a cage. Not being adopted. Being put to sleep. All because her owner hadn’t understood the obligation involved in owning a dog.

All because I couldn’t have pets.

By the time we closed for the day, I knew there was no way in hell I was letting Nick take her to the shelter. The problem was, I really couldn’t take her home. There was no way in hell I could afford to pay the $5,000 damage clause listed in my lease if caught with a pet. Granted, I might be able to get through the first night without the landlord knowing, but what would I do with MoJo the next day? Or the day after that? I couldn’t risk leaving her alone in the house. Nick was a nice guy, but I couldn’t ask to bring her to work every day.

Who did I know that could take her? Not Stacey. Not Nick. Not Brooke, who had been sullen all day at work again, sneering at poor MoJo. I didn’t have any other friends. The only other person I knew was Emanuel. And I barely even knew him.

Still, barely was better than not at all.

It was absurd, but it was the best idea I had. I took one of Nick’s extra leashes and led MoJo down the street to the pawnshop. El was in his usual spot, feet on the counter while he read a newspaper. No cigarette, but it was probably only a matter of time. He looked up when I came in, and I thought maybe he even looked happy to see me.

“Hey, Paul. Here for another beer?”

“No. I have a question for you.” I was blushing, unsure what to say.
Can you adopt this dog?
suddenly seemed a bit too forward. He solved my dilemma by standing up and looking down at MoJo in amusement.

“What the hell is that?”

I frowned. “It’s a dog. What’s it look like?”

He laughed. “That, my friend, is what happens when a gremlin fucks an Ewok.”

“Be nice.” I reached down to scoop MoJo up off the floor. She wiggled in my hands, her tail wagging and her tongue flapping gleefully toward my face. I put her down on the glass countertop, facing Emanuel. “Look at that face. How can you not love it?”

Emanuel cocked his head sideways at MoJo, as if he really were trying to decide if he could love her or not. MoJo panted happily at him, her tail swishing back and forth on the countertop.

“I hate to break it to you, but you can’t pawn a live animal.”

“I’m not trying to pawn her. I was wondering if . . .”

“If what?”

I took a deep breath and said in a rush, “If maybe you’d keep her?”

“Like pet-sitting? For how long?”

“Well, uh, forever, I guess. Owning a dog is a full-time responsibility, and—”

El’s eyebrows rose into his hairline. “Owning? Who said anything about me owning her?”

“Well, that’s what I’m asking. She needs a home.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled challengingly at me. “What’s wrong with yours?”

“I can’t have dogs.”

“And why me?”

“You’re the only person I know.”

He’d looked flummoxed before, but now he seemed flustered. “What am I supposed to do with her?”

MoJo was still on the counter, looking back and forth between us as we talked, her tongue lolling. “I don’t want to take her to the shelter. She’s a good dog, and I’d worry every single day about whether or not she’d been adopted.”

El rubbed the back of his head, staring at MoJo in exasperation. “Not sure I’m allowed to have dogs in here.”

“I thought the cops didn’t care about your personal vices?”

For half a second he stared at me, as if weighing my words, and then he laughed, his eyes suddenly bright. He rubbed the back of his head again. “Fair enough.” He looked down at MoJo, who was responding to the happy tones of our voices, wagging her tail faster than ever, panting at him. “You want to be a pawnshop dog?”

She flapped her tongue excitedly in his direction.

“Huh,” Emanuel said. “I had it wrong.”

“What?”

He took a red felt-tip marker out of the jar next to the register before turning his back on me, taking something off the shelf behind him, and leaning over it with the marker. A second later, he turned back around and put the item on the counter next to MoJo. It was a soccer ball, white and black, only now it sported a little red half-moon in one of the white spots. He turned MoJo around so she was facing me.

Black and white. The tip of her tongue hung from her mouth, a little half-moon of pink.

Emanuel held his hand over them and pointed back and forth between them. “See the resemblance?”

I laughed. “Does that mean you’ll take her?”

“I guess.” He leaned down to look at MoJo, staying out of reach of her tongue. “No peeing in the store. No chewing the skis or the golf clubs. No biting the customers, unless I give you the signal. Got it?”

MoJo’s wriggling turned into full-blown convulsions of doggy glee.

“I think she’s got it,” Emanuel said, standing up straight again to face me.

“Thanks, El. Really. I’ll pay for her food if you want—”

“Forget it. What’s she weigh? Two pounds? She obviously doesn’t eat much.”

I looked at MoJo, still sitting on the counter next to the defaced ball. They were about the same size. The resemblance really was uncanny. “Dogs aren’t for kicking.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry. I never even played soccer.”

I spent the next morning wondering how MoJo was doing. Brooke had called in sick again, and we were too busy for me to take a lunch break. Finally, at around three, I looked up the number for Tucker Pawn and called.

“Tucker Pawn,” El said, curt and to the point.

“El, it’s Paul.”

“Hey there.” I could tell he was smiling. “I thought you’d be by at lunch to check on this dog.”

“I couldn’t get away. How’s she doing?”

“Well . . .” I could picture him rubbing the short hair on the back of his head. “I don’t know, man. She doesn’t seem good, you know.”

“Oh no! What’s wrong? Is she depressed?”

“Maybe—”

“Her owner did leave her. Is she eating?”

“She eats, yeah, but—”

“Is she vomiting?”

“No, but—”

“But she’s not doing well? That’s what you said, right?”

“Well, I don’t know much about dogs. I think you better come check on her. I think you’d feel better seeing her for yourself.”

“I will,” I promised. “I’ll come by after work.”

Of course that meant another two hours of worrying. Being abandoned was hard on an animal. Some people claimed dogs didn’t have feelings like people, but I knew that wasn’t true. I’d seen dogs who were depressed or lonely. I hoped that wasn’t the case with MoJo.

Five o’clock finally came. I took a handful of dog treats out of our cookie jar before locking the door and heading to the pawnshop. Maybe they’d help cheer her up.

I walked in the door, and my ankles were immediately under siege. MoJo ran around my feet, trying to climb up my leg any time I held still.

“Hey, girl,” I said, bending to feed her a treat. “How are you doing? Are you sad?”

She didn’t look sad, though. She ran gleefully around my feet, then sat up on her haunches, begging for another treat.

I looked up at El, who was standing behind the counter, watching us. “She looks fine,” I said.

“Does she?”

“She does to me. What had you worried?”

“Well, I don’t know that I was worried . . .”