Friday, 2:21 p.m.
While I was saying good-bye to the rhyming lesbians, someone replied to one of Tucker’s Facebook posts. His name was Willard Bixby, and he said he had found Mamie earlier that morning. After an exchange of numbers, Tucker and Mr. Bixby began texting back and forth before I came back to the house.
“He says he went online to see if anyone was missing a dog, and he saw a copy of our flyer.”
My stomach jumped. “Ask about a collar.”
Tucker typed, then waited for a response.
“No collar.”
“Did he give you a description?”
“Small dog, about twenty pounds, yellow,” he read aloud. “Answers to Mamie.”
“Has to be her.”
“Oh, gracias, Santa Maria,” Lee said. “Do you have an address?”
Tucker scrolled up on his phone. “He’s about three blocks away.”
I inhaled fully for the first time since the night before. I was relieved and filled with pride. My brave girl had somehow evaded her captors and was probably headed home when Mr. Bixby found her. She might have made it had he not scooped her up and brought her inside. Of course, I was grateful to him. Smart and stubborn though she was, the science of traffic lights and walk signals was elusive to her, and this way she was safe.
“Angela Woolsey said she had a good feeling about this,” I said. “Oh, shit—Angela Woolsey.”
Tucker looked up from his phone. “What about her?”
“We have to tell her to axe the story.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Lee said. “Let’s get your dog back first. And hey, if you send her video of the reunion to include in the report, she won’t even be mad.”
We all agreed this was a good plan.
“We’d better drive,” I said. “It’s only three blocks, but it sounds like she doesn’t have a collar. And I don’t have a leash.”
“Why don’t you two go,” Tucker said. “I hate to miss the happy reunion, but my boss is sending me a million texts. I don’t think he’s happy I took a surprise day off. I’d better go in and put out some fires.”
“Totally,” I said. “We shouldn’t all lose our jobs over this.”
Monday, I thought—this time with joy and anticipation. I couldn’t wait to go back to work on Monday. A perfectly normal working day, with a fetching satchel in one hand and a triple grande hazelnut latte in the other, asking people how their weekend was and answering their polite repetition of the question with something vague like, “Pretty quiet actually.” I’d be just another gay man with a good job, good friends, and a loving, loyal dog in an extra-large crate waiting for me to come home and disarm the security system, which I would activate every time I left the house for the rest of my life, forever and ever, amen.
“Thanks,” Tucker said, packing his laptop away. “I feel like a shitty friend.”
“Shut up,” I said, full of affection. “You made the flyer. You put it on Facebook. You basically found her for me. Thank you.” I gave him a hug, which he returned.
“Oh, I love my little babies,” Lee crooned, embracing our embrace until we all started to giggle.
Friday, 2:48 p.m.
After saying good-bye to both Tucker and Russell, who seemed genuinely upset to be leaving us and whined when Tucker put his leash on, Lee and I got into my car and drove three blocks west and one block north to the address Mr. Bixby had given us. Knowing I’d be carrying Mamie back to the car, I tried to find a parking space nearby, but there weren’t any. The best I could do was just around the corner, which was manageable, although Mamie hated to be carried as a rule and would surely squirm uncontrollably in my arms the entire way.
“This will have to do.”
“It’s fine,” Lee said. “Let’s go get her.”
We got out of the car and began to walk the length of the block to Mr. Bixby’s home.
“If he saw the flyer, do you suppose he’s going to ask you for the reward?”
“Oh, shit. Probably.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Kill myself?” I said. “Kidding! What the hell, I’m good for it. I don’t know how, but I’ll figure it out. I’ll eat ramen noodles every night and he can have five hundred a month, for what—the next twenty months if necessary.”
There was a moment of quiet as we considered this new reality. Why had I let Irene talk me into this? He was going to ask me for ten thousand dollars, and I couldn’t refuse. But I’d have Mamie back, which was all that mattered.
“You know, ramen noodles can be surprisingly versatile.”
“Yeah, Claude told me the same thing about you.”
“That’s valid.”
I gave him a smile as we faced Bixby’s house. “This is it,” I said, walking up the steps. I opened the screen door and knocked.
I was a little taken aback by the silence that followed. Mamie always raised holy hell when she heard a knock at the door.
“It’s quiet,” I said.
Lee shrugged. “She doesn’t have anyone in there to protect. She barely knows this guy.” And that sounded right.
I knocked again, and the door opened soon after.
Willard Bixby was one of those men probably in his forties, but who looks much, much older. Short and slight, with male pattern baldness and an enormous sand-colored mustache, he was no one’s idea of a valiant hero. He wore a plain white T-shirt in the middle of January and a pair of jeans a size too big. His skin was uniformly pink, except for the nose and the tops of his ears, which were red and shiny. Honestly, I was surprised he was white—or, in this case, pink. Most people in this neighborhood were either Black baby boomers or white hipster millennials. I was and remain the oldest white person I know within a three-block radius with the exception of the Klinkoffs, an old Russian couple who’d been here forever, but no one was sure how long because they never spoke to anyone.
Apparently, we weren’t who Mr. Bixby was expecting either, judging from his frown and furrowed brow. “Can I help you?” he mumbled.
“Are you Mr. Bixby?” I said.
“Do I know you?”
“We’re here about Mamie. You found my dog?”
We could see the light bulb flicker once or twice inside his foggy brain before finally illuminating. “Yes, yes, right, okay,” he said quietly, going back inside the house.
Lee and I looked at each other, both trying to suspend judgment and to maintain a feeling of gratitude, but it was difficult. We were, after all, well-groomed homosexuals who had been fending off society’s shame with witty barbs ever since we could talk. And he was, after all, this vacant bag of bones who seemed unable to look people in the eye, speak in complete sentences, or remember anything since that morning. Still, we held our tongues.
When he walked back into his house, he left the door open, which was as good as an invitation, so I gingerly opened the screen door. It squeaked loud enough to warn anyone inside I was coming, so I didn’t feel the need to announce myself. Lee followed behind cautiously, closing the door behind him.
Stepping into his living room, we immediately noted the smell. The odor was vaguely medicinal with a hint of beef, like a meatloaf smothered in VapoRub. We entered just as Mr. Bixby was ambling back into his kitchen. So, we stood for a moment, breathing through our mouths, waiting to be once again received.
The walls were decorated with unframed posters of a religious bent, mostly Jesus interacting with peasants, signified by a halo around his head and the curious hand gesture he always seems to make when talking down to people. Above the door that led to the kitchen was a crucifix of the Catholic variety with an emaciated Messiah breathing his last nailed to it. There was an old television and a single piece of furniture: a faded ivory couch, which looked to be as old as Mr. Bixby, sporting several holes in the upholstery and bits of yellowish foam rubber sticking out.
“Holy shit. Look,” said Lee, pointing to the far end of the couch. There, a little white dog sat perfectly still. It was about twelve pounds and, well, “white” was a relative term. It was a dingy animal, about the same color as the couch, which was probably why we hadn’t noticed it.
“That is a creepy little dog,” I said.
Lee nodded, eyes wide. “Where’s Mamie, do you suppose?”
“I don’t know.”
The creepy little dog began to growl. The fur on top of its head was matted down, and one tiny sharp tooth jutted upward out of its mouth. Its nose was pinkish, resembling the man of the house.
And just then Mr. Bixby reappeared. He carried a mug of what looked like beige, cloudy coffee with a large black speck floating in it.
“Mr. Bixby, I—”
I was interrupted by a loud slurping. When he brought his mug down, the large black speck was still there, consuming my attention. Lee nudged me.
“Can I see my dog? Where is she?”
“It was very nice of you to come over so quickly,” Bixby said, never quite making eye contact.
“I live close by.”
“What are your names?”
“Um, I’m Charlie, and this is my friend, Lee. I’d like to see my dog, if you don’t—”
“Hello, Charlie. Hello, Lee. I’m Willard,” he said before taking another slurp from his coffee mug. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you too?” Lee said, looking at me the entire time.
“Please,” Bixby said. “Have a seat.” He motioned to the worn and dusty couch, which still held a growling little dog.
“No, thank you,” Lee said, unwilling to abandon good manners but equally unwilling to put his body on anything that might be home to thousands of fleas.
Bixby shuffled to the front window, eyes fixed on his coffee mug. How he could have missed the flotsam in his coffee was beyond me. I wondered if it was there on purpose. “Have you lived in the neighborhood long?”
I hadn’t come to make small talk, and I was growing impatient, but didn’t want to seem ungrateful. “Mr. Bixby—”
“Oh, please. Call me Willard.”
“All right, Willard. Do you have my dog? I’d really like to see her.”
“Oh, yes,” Bixby said, now staring out the window. “I found your dog this morning when I was walking home from breakfast. It’s a very nice dog.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Where is she?”
“Well, the dog’s right over there,” Bixby said, pointing to the growling little varmint on the edge of his couch.
I regarded this thoroughly unpleasant animal, and I felt my heart breaking. Bixby didn’t have Mamie. Mamie was still gone, and I didn’t have the faintest idea where she was.
“That’s not my dog.”
“Oh, I’m sure it is,” Bixby said, digging for something in his pocket. “What’s its name again?”
“Mr. Bixby. Willard. That isn’t my dog. I’m sorry for any misunderstanding, and thank you for contacting us, but—”
“No, wait wait wait!” Bixby pulled his phone from his front pocket, and was furiously scrolling through it as he stumbled toward the front door. Lee and I stared at each other, overwhelmed with sadness but unsure what to do with this potentially insane man who was now blocking our exit.
“Found it,” he mumbled, showing us his phone. It was a copy of the flyer Tucker made earlier that morning, the new one with the words “$10,000 REWARD” in bold print right in the center. “Watch this,” he said, facing the dog, who was still growling at me. “Mamie,” he said, and the growling stopped. There was a sudden silence, as if someone had taken the needle off a spinning record. Bixby chuckled. “See?”
I was unmoved. “No, Willard. Mr. Bixby. I’m sorry, but that’s not my dog.”
“Mamie, come.” Sure enough, the dog jumped down from the couch and approached. Bixby. “Sit,” he commanded, and the dog sat down, looking up expectantly, perhaps awaiting a treat.
“Um, Charlie? It’s a boy,” Lee said. “Look.”
Not only did this dog have a penis, it presently had an erection, like an angry pink lipstick bobbing up and down. This detail mattered little to Bixby.
“Your dog is very friendly,” he said, putting his hand in front of the dog’s nose. The dog took a sniff and then licked his knuckles, causing Bixby to giggle for a moment. “Now you,” he said, to me.
“I don’t think you understand, Willard. That’s just not my d—”
“But you’re not even trying,” he said. Either he was out of his mind, or he thought I was the stupidest man on earth.
Not knowing what else to do, I bent down and offered my downturned hand to this dog, who sniffed it, but did not reward me with a kiss. I was never so happy to be rejected.
“Well, that doesn’t prove anything,” Bixby insisted.
I turned to Lee. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“You can’t go yet,” Bixby said. “We haven’t even talked about the reward money.”
And there it was. Bixby wasn’t crazy. He was a grifter, a con man. And not a very bright one.
“Mr. Bixby, I—”
“Call me Willard.”
“Mr. Bixby. I’m not taking this dog, and I’m not giving you any money.”
“But I found your dog for y—”
“Stop,” I said, angry and finally not caring if it showed. “Just stop it. You didn’t find my dog. That is not my dog. That dog is smaller, dirtier, and uglier than my dog, and that dog has a dick. Okay? I offered a reward to anyone who could give me my dog back. You are not that person.”
“But we had a deal.” He was calm and not at all threatening. He looked pathetic and sad, but he was insistent. “We had a deal.”
“No. No, we don’t. This is not how deals work.”
“We had a deal,” he said again, “and you’re not leaving this house until you give me my money.” He reached behind him and turned the deadbolt on his door. “It’s my money.”
“We’re going to go now,” Lee said.
“Please, let’s talk about this. It’s been a rough couple of years, you know? I could really use a break.”
“Mr. Bixby,” I said, “you really do have to let us go.”
“You’ve got lots of money. I mean, look at you two. If you’ve got all that money to spend on one lost dog…look, I’ve got nothing. And I’ve got this heart condition, and the medicine costs a lot, and—”
“I’m sorry you’re having a rough time of it, Willard. But I’m not giving you any money, and you don’t have my dog,” I said, not without sadness. “So, I don’t think we can help each other.”
“Now just hold on—” But his next tactic was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was the quick, efficient knock of someone familiar to the place.
“Willard!” A woman was on the front porch, clearly expecting the door to be open.
And then a child’s voice chimed in. “Daddy, let us in!”
“Now, you go away for a minute,” Bixby called out. “I’m busy in here!”
But a key was already forcing the deadbolt back into the door.
“Busy doing what?” The door opened, and a tall, casually but fashionably dressed Black woman stood behind it. “You got a girlfriend in there or something?” She was easily a head taller than Willard. She noticed Lee and me standing in her living room, and her brow furrowed as she returned her keys to her purse. “Who the hell are you?”
“We were just leaving,” Lee answered.
“Hold up,” she said. “Willard, who are these people?”
We noticed the little girl, simultaneously hiding behind her mother and wanting to be seen, peek her head around to get a good look at us. “I’m Glory,” she said, shyly. She looked to be around five or six years old. She had big spiral curls all over her head and wore a pink winter coat.
“Hi, Glory. My name is Lee.” They shared a smile between them.
“And I’m Charlie,” I extended my hand. “You are…his wife?”
“Ex-wife,” she said, giving my hand a firm shake. “I’m Roz. What’s happening in here?”
At this point, the mangy little white dog hopped back up on the couch, perhaps to get a better view of the ensuing drama.
“I’m afraid it’s all been a big misunderstanding,” I said.
“They owe us money,” Mr. Bixby said.
“Willard, hush,” said Roz. “Charlie, is it? Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“Well, my dog was stolen from my house, and I’m trying to find her. I’ve offered a reward for her return. Your husband thought he found her and called us over here, but this is not her.” I pointed to the little dog, who was turning in circles on the couch, preparing for a lie-down.
Little Glory stepped into the center of the room and dramatically stomped her foot. “Daddy!” she yelled. “You were trying to sell Dudley?!”
Roz rolled her eyes. “Jesus Christ, Willard.”
“Dudley’s not his name anymore, sweetie,” Mr. Bixby said, before turning to his woman by his side. “And don’t take the Lord’s name in vain in my house.”
Glory pounced on her dog, to protect him from us, I suppose, and the three of them began yelling over each other so loudly we couldn’t hear much of what was being said, only that Roz was continuing to take the Lord’s name in vain at every available opportunity.
“We’re gonna go now,” I said, to no one in particular, and Lee and I circled around the mêlée and escaped without much notice.
Once Lee closed the door behind him, we sprinted away until we were ten or twelve houses down.
“That was fucking weird,” Lee said.
“Yeah,” I replied, gasping.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I thought we had her back.”
“Yeah. Me too. And now it probably won’t happen.”
“What are you talking about? Of course it’ll happen. One crazy asshole doesn’t mean anything.”
I nodded but kept going.
“Hey, listen to me,” Lee said. “She’s going to be on the news tonight, and a lot of people are going to see that. And even though this fucking guy was loco en la cabeza, we know people are seeing the flyer, so that’s good. Right?”
I nodded again, but Lee could tell I wasn’t convinced. “It’s been twenty-four hours,” I said sadly. “Time’s up.”
“You didn’t get home last night until after dark.”
“But she was taken between 2:47 and 3:05,” I said. “Lt. Herman said if we don’t get her back within twenty-four hours, we probably won’t find her.”
“Well, he never met Mamie,” said Lee. “Has he?”
I kept walking, but Lee stopped. He efficiently stomped his foot, which was my clue to return to him where he stood.
“Has he?”
“No.”
“No, he hasn’t. C’mon. Let’s get you home.”
We got back into my car and drove three blocks east and one block south back to my place. Lee offered to send Tucker a text message with the disappointing news. The two of them were having quite the conversation with their thumbs, which left me alone with my thoughts.
At least we hadn’t said anything to Angela Woolsey, and Mamie’s story was still being edited together across town. I tried to channel Angela’s optimism and reminded myself Lee was right. Mamie was an extraordinary little dog, and most burglaries didn’t get covered on the evening news. We had to get her back, and I knew we would, based on one piece of circumstantial evidence: I refused to imagine another ending to the story.
Because of the one-way streets in my neighborhood, we had to drive in front of my house to get to the alley. Approaching the house, Lee suddenly piped up. “Charlie, look,” he said. “There’s somebody on your porch.”
There was a car about to pass, so I couldn’t take my eyes off the road. “Who is it?”
“Holy shit. It’s Freddie fucking Babcock.”