Page 12 of A Matter of Pedigree
Poopsie was growling. She didn’t think much of Paulie.
“Screw ’em. They can’t touch me. I’m out on bail,” said Frank.
“Just thought I’d let you know. They’ve got warrants. They want the contracts for the Factory job.”
Poopsie was barking now. “So give ’em to ’em,” said Frank, turning to Carole. “Can’t you shut her up?”
Carole shrugged. “Ask him why they want the contracts.”
“I guess they think there’s something funny, I don’t know. I think Chase and Mooney put ’em on to us, complaining we squeezed ’em out.”
“Be quiet,” Carole told the dog.
“That’s crazy. We did Mitch Chase a favor, got ’em the HVAC.”
“Yeah, well, I guess they don’t see it that way,” said Paulie.
“Shut the dog up,” said Frank. “I’m getting a headache.” Poopsie was running around in circles, barking her head off.
“Turn off the speaker,” suggested Carole. “I bet that’s what’s bothering her.”
“Gotta go,” said Frank, slamming the phone down and making a grab for the dog. She eluded him and ran down the hall to the bedroom, where she scooted under the bed. Frank fell to his knees and tried to grab her, but she growled and snapped at his hand. “I’m gonna kill that dog,” he threatened, as the phone rang again.
This time Carole got it. Good thing, she thought, because it was Frank-O, and Frank was in no mood to deal with his son.
“Hi, sweetie,” she cooed, and Frank gave her a look.
“What do you mean?” Carole was asking. “Didn’t we give you five thousand at the beginning of the term?”
Frank was listening, and he didn’t like the sound of what he was hearing.
“That’s all gone? And you haven’t finished your project?”
“What’s he making? The Leaning Tower of Pisa or something?” demanded Frank, angrily. Still beneath the bed, Poopsie was keeping up a low growl.
“He won’t get any credit,” Carole told him, “if he doesn’t finish the project.”
Frank was pissed. “What does he think I am, made of money?” he shouted.
Poopsie began barking.
“Enough, enough,” said Carole. “I’ll call you back,” she told Frank-O, ending the call. “You,” she said, pointing a finger tipped in Melon of Troy, “work off some steam at the gym. I’ll take the dog out for a walk.”
Frank took the elevator down to the gym, but Carole and Poopsie took the stairs. Carole was a bit nervous that Poopsie might not make it down four flights without an accident, but the frisky dog bounded down the steps, straining at the leash. Carole peeked cautiously through the glass window of the stairwell door into the lobby and, seeing the way was clear, made a dash for the door.
Once outside, Poopsie seemed to focus on the task at hand and began sniffing around the trees planted along Edith Street. Carole avoided the Esplanade’s dog-walking area, where they might encounter another dog, and headed for her usual walk up Holden Street to Smith and around the statehouse. She charged up the steep incline, until she suddenly found herself short of breath and stopped. She inhaled a few times, leaning on a chain-link fence and taking deep yoga breaths, trying to relax. Honestly, she didn’t know if she could take another morning as stressful as this one. Poopsie, however, obligingly squatted and produced a big poop, which Carole bagged. Proceeding more slowly, they headed for a trash can on Smith Street, crossing to the other side of the street when a black-and-white dog appeared. Poopsie, who was half his size, growled and barked and pulled at the leash, letting the black-and-white dog know she’d like to rip him to pieces.
“Sometimes,” Carole found herself talking to the dog, “I’d like to let you go and see what happens.”
The owner of the black-and-white dog gave Carole a wave and continued on his way; his dog did not seem impressed by Poopsie’s theatrics and paused to raise his leg to mark a tree.
Lost in thought, worrying about Frank and Frank-O, Carole returned from the walk later than usual. It was almost ten when she got back to the Esplanade, and the concierge had left theJournaloutside her door. She stooped and picked it up, removing the rubber band. When she unfolded it, she saw her own face staring back at her. The photographer had snapped the photo when they were leaving the courthouse, just as Frank whispered in her ear. They looked happy, as if they didn’t have a care in the world. But that wasn’t true, of course. Frank got bail, but he was still under indictment and was facing life in prison. Maybe he was right, she thought; maybe they did have to find the real killer.
Back in the apartment, Carole fed the dog and cleared up the breakfast dishes. She started the dishwasher and went into the bedroom to dress. She was pulling a sweater over her head when she heard Poopsie barking again. She went back to the kitchen to investigate and found the dog staring at the dishwasher, barking. Something was loose in there, rattling a bit.
“It’s just the dishwasher, Poopsie,” said Carole. “You hear it every day.”
Poopsie clearly didn’t like the dishwasher today.
