The Dog Who Knew Too Much (29 page)

I pictured her waiting for me at the bar wearing shapeless pants and an oversize top, her ample derriere draping over the sides of the bar stool, her mousey hair pulled back in some no-nonsense, no-style look, her unpolished nails gnawed to the quick.

As I turned east on Twelfth Street, I wondered how I'd know her. Then it occurred to me that it wouldn't exactly be an issue. When I walked into the Gotham Bar and Grill with a pit bull, chances were good she'd know me.

“Super,” she said in that husky voice, “you're early, too.”

I turned around, but where was Sam?

Behind me, smiling, was a woman about my height, also late thirties, as thin and stylish-looking as if she'd just stepped out of the pages of
Vogue
. Her straight black hair was cut short in a bouncy Dutch boy bob, her makeup flawless, her dark eyes as bright as a schipperke's.

“I always used to arrive fifteen minutes ahead of schedule when I had to meet my dad,” she was saying, “and there he'd be, scowling and looking at his watch, because
he
'd gotten there half an hour early. It's warped me for life.”

She raised the hand that wasn't holding a glass of wine, and a solicitous maître d' appeared to show us to our table. He glanced at Dashiell's credentials, then led the way, Sam following him, Dashiell and I following her. She was wearing a totally gorgeous black suit, probably a size four, the jacket nipped in at the waist, the skirt a good ten inches above her knees. She had the best legs I'd ever seen, unless you count this one transvestite who sometimes hangs out at the Brew Bar on Eleventh Street. If Sam Lewis was having trouble with men, I might as well get myself to a nunnery.

The maître d' took us to a table for four instead of a tiny two-person table, one of the advantages of bringing a dog along. A pewter-colored Statue of Liberty loomed majestically over our table, and high above us were gigantic light fixtures shrouded in off-white cloth, looking like upside-down parachutes suspended from the ceiling of the cavernous space.

Sam ordered a bottle of Montrachet and plunged right into work. “Here's the deal,” she said. “I've been keeping a database of dog trainer wanna-bes from all over the country, you know, the ones who follow their favorites to seminars and hear the same talk, and get to see their hero, over and over again. Most of them teach an obedience class, free, for their local dog club, hate their jobs, and want to train dogs for a living. I did a huge mailing, got an excellent response, then got a great deal at the Ritz. I wanted a location that would let us use Central Park, of course, because I didn't think we could do tracking in the Roosevelt Ballroom. Am I right?”

She stopped to inspect the wine bottle the waiter had brought, watched him uncork it, sniffed the cork, sipped the wine, and nodded to him to indicate that it was acceptable.

“The program is fabulous, Rachel. And because we'll have so many of the most respected practitioners in the field, I felt we could offer a certificate of attendance at the end, the way Cornell does for its weekend workshops, and that, of course, allows us to charge more.”

“But how did you convince the trainers that it would be to their benefit to work together?”

“I'm good at that,” she said, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together. “Anyway, I knew that once I started getting some of them to agree to do it, the others would fall right in line. They might not want to do it, but they were more afraid of being left out. Do you want to order?” she asked, all in the same breath.

I picked up my menu and began to read, but I didn't get very far.

“It's a beautiful setup. Most of the people attending have no way at all of getting a good education in the field. They're out in podunk somewhere, and there isn't a decent trainer within a three-day drive. This way, they get all the top people, all the important topics, great demo work, hands-on practice, slide shows, videos, even the contacts they need for further study, those who want to and can afford it. And the trainers got so into this that several of them suggested we do advanced professional workshops, restricted to those who are speaking, before and after each day's program. No one, it seems, plans to sleep. I know
I
certainly don't.”

She picked up her menu and began to read.

I reached for mine. Monkey see, monkey do.

“I still wasn't thrilled with the numbers, but then I was talking to Bucky King about how hot dogs are now, since that Elizabeth woman's book, and he came up with the idea of opening up the last day to the public. He's a total genius, that man, do you know him? Of course you do. You know everyone. So now we have three hundred pet owners signed up for Sunday, basic training, a panel on problems, a slide show on body language, and to end the day, a little trick work. Once that had been arranged, I went after the vendors. After all, we have one hundred and sixty-two people in for the week, plus an additional three hundred the last day, and my bet is they're going to want every book and gadget on the market.”

“It sounds terrific,” I said, picking up my menu again. But I didn't look at it this time. I turned toward the huge windows in the rear that looked out into the lit-up garden and waited.

“Except—”

I lowered my menu.

Sam leaned closer and spoke in a whisper. “I think some of our participants, the less successful ones, actually believe they would reap the benefits if a competitor were”—she paused and tucked some hair behind one ear—“out of the way. As if that would make the work fall to them. Do you know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“From where I sit, I can guarantee you, there's plenty of money to go around. It's not some other trainer who's stopping any of them from making it. It's only themselves. But that's not the way
they
think, Rachel. The venom between some of these people is unbelievable. This is where you come in.”

“They did agree to work together, didn't they?”

“Yes and no.”

“Meaning?”

“I never did tell them who else would be there.”

“How did you get away with
that?
”

“Each time I called someone, even the first of them, when they asked who else had agreed to attend, I said, ‘Don't even ask. I don't have the time to read you the list. Just assume everyone will be there.' Then I apologized for getting to them last, mea culpa, terrible oversight, would they ever forgive me?”

“Didn't any of them pressure you?” I knew from personal experience how dogged trainers can be.

“For sure. Marty Eliot said he wouldn't commit until I told him whether or not Bucky would be there, because he knew if Bucky had agreed, there'd be lots of great PR. So I said, ‘What do
you
think?'”

I
didn't think Bucky would wipe his ass if the press weren't present to record it, but I took a sip of wine instead of saying so.

“Point of fact, Bucky's arranged for TV coverage for the last day, for a five-part PBS special. But I saved that tidbit, in case I needed additional artillery to convince any of them. The funny thing is, I never had to use it.”

“You're shameless.”

“I know. I let them jump to their own conclusions.” She grinned, a lady who was used to peering down at the rest of us from the catbird seat. “It worked for
me
,” she added. “This way had another advantage. I didn't have to listen to all that
stuff
, you know, mention a competitor's name and you hear, ‘Why are you having
him
there? He's
so
overrated,' or ‘Her? You mean she's still alive?' You know what I mean, don't you? After all, you were one of them, in a manner of speaking.”

“Well—”

“Of course,
you
weren't like that. But some of them. The funny thing is, they all pretend to love and admire each other. At least, at first. They're loath to appear to be as small and petty as they actually are,” she said, taking another sip of wine. “It's a riot when you know the truth. The other thing I had working for me was that they don't want
me
for an enemy. I've been booking these people for seminars all over the U.S. and Canada for years, making them a fortune. These are people not only promoting their methods, they're selling their books, pushing videos, gadgets, special collars and leashes, whatever. Some of the stuff is far out. One of them—oh, you'll see. Do they want me to stop booking them? They most certainly do not.”

I smiled.

Sam pulled out her appointment calendar, which looked as if it needed the services of Weight Watchers, and kept going.

“I need your attention elsewhere, so I put you down for the opening talk on the last day, forty-five minutes. Give me a topic.” When I didn't respond, she looked up. “Frank was right, Rachel. You are the right person for the job. So, a topic?”

“How about an explanation of alpha as it applies to behavior and training?”

“Super,” she said, grinning at me. She uncapped her pen. “We'll call it ‘Who's in Charge Here Anyway?' I have you down for two of the panels as well. No preparation required. Someone asks a question. You answer it. Piece of cake.”

When most people tell you something is no work, what they are really saying is that it's worth no money, which is exactly what they're planning to pay you. I felt a surge of preparatory adrenaline.

“How does this sound?” she asked. “Five for your talk, two for each panel, and of course your customary fee for private investigation work, which is?” she said, looking up.

I told her. Her eyes registered no sign of surprise. She was clearly a woman who didn't mind paying for whatever it was she decided she wanted.

“Done. And, as an added bonus, you'll get to meet four of the seven self-designated ‘dog trainers to the stars.' I had a feeling you wouldn't be able to resist my offer.”

I didn't think too many people resisted Sam, at least not in business. She was probably lucky at cards, too.

She planned well, having me work my undercover job as speaker only when everyone else was also on stage, except for the last session, probably figuring if we got that far without an incident, we were home free.

“Who are the other participants, and what are their topics?” I asked. I thought I could be the first kid on the block to find out. I was wrong.

“Let's order first,” she said. “I'm starving.”

Over dinner, Sam didn't mention the program at all. She had the Bambi-Thumper special, starting with roast venison with wild mushroom risotto, then the saddle of rabbit, which she attacked as if she hadn't eaten in days. I started with chicken, foie gras, and black trumpet terrine and segued into the seared yellowfin tuna with rosemary. I couldn't finish either dish, but I didn't think it would go over big to put the plates down on the pristine stenciled oak floor for Dashiell to clean the way I would have were I at home.

“Do you ever call men?” Sam asked out of the blue after the plates had been cleared. “You know, if you meet an interesting guy at a party? Do you ever call the hostess and get his number, give him a call, see if he wants to go to the museum, or lie and say you have an extra ticket to the Knicks game?”

I shook my head. If I laid low, Sam would probably answer all her questions herself. At least, I hoped so. I didn't relish the thought of her actually leaving an opening in the conversation during which time I would be obliged to talk about my own pathetic history and arrested social development.

“I do,” she said. “Maybe
that's
my problem. What about sex on the first date?” She lifted her wineglass but waited attentively for my answer before taking a sip.

“It depends,” I said, hoping I wouldn't be asked to elaborate.

Sam sighed. “Your standards are probably higher than mine.” She gestured toward me in a silent toast and drained her glass. Since I lied for a living, I never thought my standards were higher than anyone's, but I refrained from saying so.

“What about married men?” she asked, topping off my glass and refilling her own. But she didn't wait for my answer. “It depends,” she said, “right? Well, for me, it usually depends on whether or not they ask.”

Dashiell rolled over onto his side, using my foot as a pillow.

“I'd kill to meet Mr. Right, Rachel, but so far, all I keep doing is ending up with Mr. Tonight.”

I did a lot of nodding. It was just as Frank said. You'd be surprised at what people say if you just give them a chance to talk.

I thought perhaps that Sam had had too much to drink, but when her dessert arrived, a tower of alternating layers of white, milk, and dark chocolate mousse sitting on a plate that had been swirled with raspberry sauce and dotted with fresh berries, she seemed perfectly sober.

“Taste this,” she commanded. “You can still change your mind and order one.”

It was so luscious, it might have dropped from heaven, but one bite was enough. Sam shrugged and dug in. Afterward, she finally started to tick off the names of some of the participants in the program, but she got so carried away with bits of gossip about each one that she didn't get very far.

When the waiter came with the bill, Sam glanced at it and handed him her credit card. While her purse was still open, she took out a check she had obviously written before I'd arrived. “Two more things,” she said, holding the check tantalizingly between two manicured fingers, the nails painted a classic arterial red. “The symposium starts on Monday morning. The speakers are arriving tomorrow, starting in the early afternoon, and there's a welcoming banquet for them tomorrow night at the hotel, at eight. Is that a problem for you?”

“Not at all.”

“I might have to ask you to cover one more speaking slot.” She reached across the ruins of her dessert and handed me a check for considerably more than I would have asked for. “One of the trainers who agreed to be part of the program early on, someone who, in fact, was totally thrilled and enthusiastic, hasn't confirmed.”