"I'll be snookered," Paper Collar John muttered softly, admiring the dog. "That's the damnedest thing I ever saw."
"What?" Texaco said, his interest vaguely piqued.
John ignored him and turned to the bartender. "Y'know what this little bloke here is?" he said.
"No, sir," the bartender answered. "Guy said he was valuable, is all."
"Valuable?" Paper Collar John started to laugh. When he finally got himself under control, he shook his head in lingering amusement. "Valuable, I daresay, barely captures it. Try priceless."
"Really?" the bartender said.
Texaco had all of his attention on this conversation now, his pea brain cranked up to its full cerebral volume.
"I'll give you nine thousand dollars for this animal, right now." John put his briefcase up on the bar, snapped it open and started to drop crisp new hundred-dollar bills on the bar. "I just sold one of my racehorses for cash," he said to Texaco, who nodded dumbly, eyeing the money like a timberwolf scoping a jackrabbit.
"Whatta you doing?" The bartender tried to stop John, who now had hundred-dollar bills all over the bar. It was some of the pearl money stolen yesterday from Texaco's psychopathic boss.
"Look, put your money away, mister. The dog isn't mine," the bartender said. "Some guy just left him here for me to watch 'cause the ramp guards wouldn't let him go to the gate."
Having shown the poke. Paper Collar John scooped up the bills and put them back into his briefcase, snapped it shut, and looked at the bartender. "That dog is a bloody rare Baunchatrain Scottish Terrier. I venture there are only a hundred of these animals in the world. Not only that, he's a stud. Most of that breed has been neutered. They were originally for Turkish kings who had them bred in South Scotland. The Turkish prelates killed all of the males except for a few to protect their ownership of the line. Besides breeding racehorses, I sometimes write articles for the English Kennel Club," he explained. "There are less than ten or twelve ungelded males in the world… and you've got one of the little buggers sitting right here in front of you. This little fellow is worth a fortune in stud fees."
Roger was panting; he seemed happy to be ungelded and worth so much money.
"If the lucky gent who owns him wants t'sell the dog, my offer still goes. I'll be over at Gate Sixteen. My flight to Dallas leaves in an hour." He finished his drink, threw a huge tip on the bar, and left.
Texaco watched him go, then slid off the stool and found Beano on a phone down the corridor.
"… I don't know," Beano was saying into the receiver. "We don't have enough money for that. When did he say she had to have it done?" He listened for a moment and frowned. "I thought you said she'd be on this flight."
Texaco tapped him on the shoulder. "Hey, bud, I wanna talk to you about your dog," he said.
Beano turned and looked at him for a long moment, listening intently to the receiver.
"I can't talk to you," Beano whispered and turned away from him. "But look," he said into the receiver, "how the hell much could that possibly cost? I was just getting set to pick her up. I thought you said the tests came back negative." There was a long pause while he pretended to listen… "Is she gonna stay in the hospital over there?" And then he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes. "Okay. But where the hell am I gonna get ten thousand dollars for a bone marrow transplant? You sure the insurance won't handle it?" And then he nodded. "Okay, I'll find a way. Okay… okay, kiss her for me. Tell her I love her and I'll get the money somehow," and he started to sob again, softly. When he hung up he had tears on his face. Beano turned and started to walk back toward the front of the airport. Texaco grabbed him by the arm.
"Hey, bud… maybe I can help ya," he said.
"Huh?" Beano looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. "Who are you?" he said, distracted, looking down at his watch.
"I was in the bar back there where you left yer dog. My kid was with me and he was, well, he kinda fell in love with that little mutt, and I promised him I'd look for you and see if you'd sell him."
"I can't sell him. He's too valuable." Beano started away.
"I couldn't help but overhear you on the phone there… You got problems, from what I heard. That's rough. I could go maybe two thousand for the mutt, just 'cause I never saw my kid go so goofy for a dog like that before."
Beano thought Texaco was a terrible liar; the deceit was all over his face. "That dog is priceless. I wouldn't sell him for twice that."
"Okay. Twice that, then. Four thousand." Now avarice and a low IQ were cooking the deal. Texaco's eyes were lit with greed.
Beano let himself look torn for a moment.
"My little girl has leukemia. They need to do a bone marrow transplant." He started to cry again and pulled out his handkerchief. He struggled to control himself. "I'm sorry, I gotta go," he said. "My car's double parked."
"Okay, I'll go forty-five. Top offer. That's half what you said you need. Okay? You go sell your car or something, then you got the whole bone."
Beano looked at him for a long moment. "How would you pay?" he said, readying Texaco for the sting.
"We take my Visa card over to that machine there and run it through, then I give you cash," he said.
Texaco knew he could make a clean forty-five hundred when he sold the dog to the gray-haired asshole who wrote articles for a fucking kennel magazine. "If it was my kid dyin'," he pressed, "I wouldn't put no dog in line ahead a'her."
"You're right," Beano sniffed. "You're absolutely right."
They went to the cash machine and got the money. Texaco counted it out for Beano, but wouldn't let him have it yet. As they went back into the bar to get Roger-the-Dodger, they could see Victoria still reading, and Paper Collar John sitting by Gate 16, waiting for the flight to Dallas. In the bar, Roger-the-Dodger had drawn quite a crowd. Three flight attendants were petting and scratching him under the ears. Beano opened his wallet and took one of his American Kennel Club certificates out. "This verifies his pedigree," he said, handing the worthless Xerox over to Texaco, who now released the money. Beano handed the leash to Texaco, then he kissed Roger good-bye. "So long, old friend. I'm sorry, but you're probably saving Cindy's life." Roger licked his face. "His name is Sir Anthony of Aquitaine," Beano said sadly. "He likes Pedigree Dog Chow, the beef with liver and chicken. I get him the Doggie Cookie Treats from Alpo if he's been good."
"Whatever," Texaco said and, in a hurry to complete the transaction, walked out of the bar holding the leash.
Roger-the-Dodger bounced right after him. The dog was well trained. Each time Texaco thought he would have to tug on the leash, he found Sir Anthony of Aquitaine right on his heels.
He went to find the man with the gray hair who had the crisp hundred-dollar bills in his briefcase. He went directly to Gate 16, the flight to Dallas. But the man wasn't there, and Texaco started to panic. The man had been there just seconds ago. And then the flight to Miami was called. Victoria got up and walked to the gate, showed her original ticket, and put her purse through the Security check. Then she walked through and down the ramp. Beano followed her. Texaco turned and, with panic in his eyes, watched them go. Then, once they were through Security, Beano turned, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and whistled for Roger-the-Dodger. The dog took off running.
"No, you don't," Texaco said and yanked back on the leash, now discovering why Roger had heeled so precisely… the dog was wearing a tear-away Velcro collar. Roger zipped out and away, leaving Texaco dumbfounded, holding a leash and an empty collar.
Roger ran right through the Security check area and jumped up into Beano's arms. Beano and Victoria took off running down the ramp. Texaco Phillips went after them. He tried to crash the gate at Security, but two airport cops grabbed him and tried to hold him down. What happened next was not pretty. The ex-Patriot linebacker threw a meaty left hook and knocked one of the cops out… He hit the ground unconscious. All that was missing was the Tweety Birds over his head. Texaco Phillips was now loping down the corridor, a team of angry airport cops trailing behind him like determined wake sewage. Finally he was tackled by four at once, then wrestled to the floor. He put up a horrendous struggle.