She tells Billy about the message from Teddy Delgado, a boy claiming to have raised her dog, whom he called Joe, from puppyhood, and who of course wants him back.
Now the DEA is suddenly interested.
“That’s a lot of mystery around one little dog,” says Billy.
“I want to interview the boy who saved him. He’d be able to explain some of this, and he’d make a great story.”
“You know where to find him?”
“I can find him.”
“I’m not so sure how far you should go, poking into this, Bettina. Anything to do with drug cartels is bad news.”
She stops again and Felix sits and looks at her. Billy smiles welcomingly but Bettina’s voice goes sharp.
“Billy Ray, anytime someone tells me what I can and cannot do, that makes me mad. And I will fight and I do fight.”
“I’m not telling you what to do. I’m saying it’s dangerous to be asking around about cartel crimes in Mexico. That’s all.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“You’re smart. But I see the other side of things. From being a cop. I’d just hate to see you and that boy mixed up in trouble.”
“The dog is mine and his story is mine.”
“Well, okay, Bettina. I’m telling you to be careful, so if I have to fight you just to say that, then I guess I will. Be careful, woman.”
She gives Billy Ray a look he can’t read. He feels examined.
“I will, Billy. And if you’re that worried about me, maybe you should come too. Down to Tijuana to find the boy and get his story. It matters. We can’t be seen talking to him. We can’t name him or show him on video or in pictures. But I want to tell his story.”
Truth is, Billy Ray would follow this woman to the gates of hell if that’s what it would take to save her fool ass. He’s felt this way about a lot of people in his life, from family to friends to the general public he has sworn to protect and serve. His father told him a lot of cops feel it, this need to be of help. Which, of course, occasionally gets them killed.
“I’m off Tuesdays and Fridays.”
They climb the concrete stairs to Heisler Park. Billy likes riding his bike up here on patrol. The Pacific is different every day, sometimes gray and solemn, other times chipper and sparkling, still others pale green and churning with whitecaps. He thought Wichita Falls was beautiful until he came here. Tonight, the Laguna Art Museum is lit up and the path through the rose garden has only a few late-winter tourists.
Billy and Bettina stand at the gazebo railing, looking out at the ocean. Waves slam into the big rocks below, and the spray rises white against the dark sea. Felix sits between them. Billy pats the dog’s head and sneaks a look at Bettina in profile.
On the railing, her little finger touches his little finger, an event as emotionally charged as any that has happened to Billy Ray Crumley in some time.
“Tomorrow is Friday,” notes Bettina. “Can you go on short notice?”
“I can and will.”
A wave of gratitude breaks inside her.
“Sorry,” she says. “But I need to know this boy’s story — the boy who ran Felix through the rain. Billy, I hate being told what to do. And I will fight. I have this spark that leads to fire. I’m not saying it’s good. But you should know.”
“Peace, Bettina.”
“Peace, Billy.”
Back home, after Bettina turns off the lights, Joe waits for a while in his beloved Crate, with the blankets and plush Toys and chew things Bettina got for him at the big store that lets dogs in.
When he hears her breathing change, like people do when they stop moving at night, he rises and stretches and goes downstairs to the living room.
The security floodlights down in the parking garage throw a pale light through the sliding glass doors. Joe smells the big rug on the floor, its dust, and a sharp chemical deodorant that stings his nasal passages. He follows his nose along one walclass="underline" a mouse not very long ago; floor cleaner like where he grew up with Teddy, one of the many scents of Woman. He stops where one of those bugs with pincers has recently left his smell, a good smell but not to eat.
To the leather sofa with its animal scent, then under the small glass table on wooden stumps that smell like trees, to a splendid blooming kernel of popcorn like Teddy and Dan sometimes give him, which crunches deliciously on his molars. In one corner of the living room stands a tall thing with a smell that Joe recognizes but has no word for: the coconut in the surfboard wax that sits in clumps on the top and is rough and salty on his tongue.
The kitchen tile is cool on Joe’s feet as he hunts crumbs around the refrigerator and under the counters, nothing much here but the floor cleaner again and some fine sand. In the room where Woman sits and does things, Joe smells the piquant tires of the big-wheeled thing like Billy had in Bettina’s room in the city. Possibly a Bike. And there’s a tall wooden box, from between the doors of which comes the Gun smell that was always very strong on Aaron and sometimes strong on Dan, too, and that Billy has.
Back upstairs, Joe sits on the floor and rests his snout on the bed, drawing in the smells of the Bettina, who breathes steadily just a few feet away. He can see one side of her face, but the rest of it is buried in the pillow. She has many scents and he likes them all. Bettina is a long name to remember. On the bedstand is an empty glass that smells similar to Aaron’s many empty glasses and a book that smells old. Joe touches his nose to the small, flat, angled piece of ribbon that protrudes from between the pages. He sniffs down where the bedspread almost meets the carpet: old dust.
Joe lies down next to the bed, where the smell of Bettina is strong and good, sets his head on his front paws, and thinks of Dan, who was very happy when Joe found the drugs and money. Who took him to the beach. Then Aaron, who was sad when he didn’t find enough drugs and money, no matter how hard he tried. Then he remembers his happiest times of alclass="underline" wrestling with Teddy when he was a puppy, and the way Teddy taught him to find things.
The Teams.
Almost Five Years Before the Shoot-Out...
8
Street Mutt’s pups were born on Sunday, April 9, in a big crate on the floor of a bedroom belonging to a ten-year-old boy named Teddy. Teddy named his favorite pup Joe.
Joe’s was a dark, warm, hungry world, and he knew only the sweet thing that came from his mother and the strength of the creatures all around him trying to get the sweet thing too.
Joe couldn’t know that his mother’s name was Mabel, that she was petite for a Labrador retriever, almost white, with a cute black nose, a pleasant disposition, and a passion for tennis balls. To him she was just the warm large thing that fed him and licked him and let him sleep up against her always thumping, gurgling belly.
Joe couldn’t know, either, that giving birth had been an urgent ordeal for Mabel, leaving small bloody dogs all over her crate pad to lick clean and feed with her swollen, tender teats. The little beasts jostled for position along her underbody, never satisfied, moving from nipple to nipple and sucking hard for more.
At three weeks old, Joe had become bossy and got whichever nipple he wanted and could out-wobble his siblings across the floor to Teddy when he came to play with him, which was often.
Joe loved the way Teddy looked at him and held him. As his eyes grew stronger, Joe studied Teddy’s face. He was like a god, though Joe had no concept of God and never would. When Teddy lifted him to his chest and kissed his nose, Joe could feel the boy’s heart beating and smell the wonderful smells of his mouth. Being high in the air like this should have frightened him, but in Teddy’s arms it didn’t. Joe’s trust was instinctive and unconditional. If he jumped, the boy would catch him.