Page 32 of Dirty Looks

“Well, it’s about the dog,” he said.

“What dog?” Martinez and I both asked.

“It’s crazy really,” Doug said. “You see, I opened the door to get the groceries off the porch and I swore I heard this howling sound. At first I thought maybe it was the wind. But it was too weird to be the wind. And then like, my Spidey-sense kicked in and I followed the sound to the side of the house where the creek is, and there it was.”

“There what was?” I asked, my palms starting to sweat.

“Oscar,” he said.

I closed my eyes and prayed for patience. “Who’s Oscar?”

“The dog,” he said. “I named him that because he looks like Oscar the Grouch. But he’ll probably look better after I give him a bath.” Doug paused for a second. “Maybe.”

“Umm, Doug…”

“Wait, hear me out,” Doug said. “You see, he was all tangled up in these brambles, and he was muddy and the creek was rising. I had to get him out of there or he would have died.”

“Doug, why would you think I’d be mad about you rescuing a dog? Share your groceries with him. I’m sure he’s hungry.”

“Oh, I didn’t figure you’d be mad about the dog part,” he said. “I know you’ve been trying to talk Jack into getting one. I figured you’d be mad about the mud.”

I rubbed the throbbing that had started between my eyes. “What mud?”

“It’s just that he was all matted up, so I brought him in through the kitchen so I could take him into the guest bathroom and get him in the shower. But he was so excited he got away from me and kind of ran through the house. But don’t worry. I’ll have everything cleaned up by the time you get home. And don’t worry about the sofa. I know how to use the steam cleaner. It’ll be like new. You guys probably shouldn’t have bought a white couch, but hindsight is twenty-twenty. And I can fix the lamp. Maybe.”

“Just clean up the mess,” I said. “I’m glad you’ve got company. We’ll be home later if the bridge isn’t flooded. Otherwise I’ll be at the funeral home.”

“Should I tell Jack about Oscar?”

“Let’s surprise him,” I said.

“Wisdom,” Doug said and disconnected.

Martinez burst into laughter. “So you’ve got a dog now.”

“I wanted my dog to be named Sherlock,” I said, tapping my fingers on my leg. “What kind of name is Oscar? I didn’t want an Oscar. I wanted a Sherlock.”

“Sounds to me like Oscar is Doug’s dog,” he said. “You’ve still got a chance for Sherlock.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It depends on how bad the house is wrecked when Jack gets home. Oscar might have screwed up my chances for Sherlock. Our sofa is pretty nice.”

Martinez was sitting forward, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, trying to see through the windshield.

“This is ridiculous,” Martinez said. “We do not have time for this.” And then a rapid string of Spanish flowed from his mouth.

I didn’t know any Spanish, but I recognized the tone and I figured most of the words he said weren’t appropriate for most ears, and I figured the altar boy was probably going to have to spend some time in confession.

He pounded on the steering wheel a couple of times, said a word I’d heard onNYPD Blueand knew his abuela wouldn’t approve of, and then slammed on the brakes so we skidded slightly. And the rain stopped. I mean it all the way stopped. Not even a wayward dribble landed on the windshield.

“Holy smokes,” I said. “What did you just do?”

“A little something my abuela taught me,” he said.

“I don’t know whether to make the sign of the cross or give you a high five.”

“Family trade secret,” he said.

“Maybe you could have done it a couple of weeks ago,” I said.

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