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One of the bad things about Molly being in school is that she doesn’t go to work with us during the day. Frankly, the jobs are always more fun when she’s along. Which is why I’m glad we’re picking her up this afternoon to go to a job even though the boss and I did an apartment complex in the morning.
“Sorry,” the boss says when Molly climbs into the van, a quizzical look on her face. He hands her a peanut butter sandwich and an apple. “We have to run out to do an estimate. The owner wanted to be there herself, and couldn’t make it before four.”
Peanut butter fumes waft through the van, and I start to drool even though there’s no way I’ll get any of the sandwich. Not with me in the crate and the boss right there.
But Molly surprises me. When we’ve stopped and she’s getting me out, she bends over me and slides a hand with a crust of sandwich up to my mouth. Mostly bread but enough peanut butter to make it good. I swallow it whole so as not to give her away.
A light rain mists the sidewalks. Because of the chilly weather, the boss and Molly wear what they call wind-breakers—odd term—that have pictures on the back of a bed bug in a circle with a line drawn through it. I have the same picture on my vest.
The trees have shed half their leaves, which lie in fragrant piles along the curb, the rest waving damply from the branches. The air has that pleasant, smoky, wood-fire smell that always happens this time of year.
“Waddell Retirement Homes,” Molly reads on a big sign that faces the street.
The boss says, “They have 130 units here, and something like 600 if you count their other locations. So it’d be a big job if we can get it.”
Molly snaps a photo of the sign and the front of the building.
“No photos inside,” the boss warns. “Remember what happened last time.”
Which time? Molly’s camera has gotten her in trouble more than once.
Molly’s lips tighten for a second. “Okay.” She drops the camera back into the pocket of her windbreaker. “Can I take Doodle?”
The boss hands her the leash. We walk over a broad sidewalk that’s a little slick with rain and moss through the doors to the office. A paunchy, gray-haired man with glasses bends over the reception desk talking to—hey, it’s Sid. Once again he’s wearing tight jeans and tight shirt, which is open at the chest exposing tufts of light brown hair.
“Sid.” The boss sounds more surprised than friendly.
“Hey, Josh. How’s it going?” Sid smooths the sides of his hair. A sharp cologne wafts from him, overwhelming all the other scents in the room. Molly wrinkles her nose. You know a scent is strong when humans can detect it. I hope I don’t have to search for bugs right here.
“And how’s my pretty little photographer doing today?” He reaches to pat Molly on the head. She backs away. She hates having her head patted, a sentiment I share. I move in front of her protectively.
“No more unauthorized photo sessions, I hope.” His laugh has a threatening quality that makes my hair rise.
Molly mumbles something while the boss hands a paper to the clerk behind the desk.
“—an appointment to do an estimate,” the boss is saying.
The clerk nods. “Mrs. Carter called and said she’d be a few minutes late.”
“You too?” Sid laughs and lightly punches the boss on the shoulder with the palm of his hand. The boss flinches and blinks.
“Are you doing an estimate here?” The boss forces his lips into a smile but he sounds anything but happy. “I didn’t think you had a dog . . .”
“No. No dog in the fight, so to speak.” Sid says.
Dog fight? Have I missed something?
“But I keep tabs on opportunities for my students. Which reminds me. Have you thought about a little extra training for your dog here? If I recall, he was one of the ones with false alerts.”
“One false alert. The only one he’s had since I got him from Miguel.” Now tension pours from the boss. I can see it in every line of his body. No wonder, when this guy can’t keep his hands to himself. I watch to see if he tries to hit Josh again. Instead, he gives a little wave to the man behind the desk. “Can I steal Josh here for a second? Won’t take long.”
He takes Josh’s arm and leads him back outside. Molly trails behind them halfway to the door and then stays behind as if unsure whether or not to follow. The glass doors close, but, once again my superior hearing comes through.
“Hey, I just wanted to let you know it’s not too late to sign Doodle up for my class,” Sid says, his arm still on the boss. “Our dogs have a pass-rate that’s much higher than those who haven’t had the class. And I think after his performance the other day, well —It’s possible you’re giving away the locations of the vials during practice. “
“Doodle’s doing fine.”
Uh-oh. Molly slips out her camera and starts snapping photos of the boss and Sid. I hope neither of them notice.
“Well.” Sid shrugs. “My experience is that these trials reflect what will happen on the test. Or worse. I’ve seen dogs that never missed a vial in practice fail on the exam. It happens more than you’d think. My class bomb-proofs the dogs so they don’t choke up on the big day. And it shows in the results.”
The boss rubs his beard. “How much is it?”
“Normally, it’s 3500 for a six week course. In your case, because there’s only three weeks until the test, we’d have to do some private work, so it would be 3800.”
“Dollars?” the boss asks. He shakes his head. “That’s quite a racket.”
Sid laughs, though his eyes flash briefly in a way that makes me even more alert. “Not a racket if you pass the test. You know as well as I do that with more and more pest control companies turning to bed bug dogs, the competition for work is increasing daily. Anyone with a NABBS certificate will have a distinct advantage over those who don’t. Especially,” Sid lowers his voice and I have to prick my ears to hear over the clicking of Molly’s camera, “especially if the businesses find out that a company’s dog failed the test. No apartment manager wants to spend money on a dog whose results might not be accurate.”
“But aren’t the NABBS results confidential?”
“Yes, but no one keeps positive results confidential. And I help my trainees out by providing certain hotels and apartment complexes with lists of those who have achieved their certifications. If you’re not on the list . . . let’s just say, if I were a manager, I’d work from the list.”
“Are you threatening me?” The boss asks, his voice incredulous.
Sid smooths his hair and laughs, shaking his head as if the boss said something crazy. But once again the hair on my back rises. “No threat, just giving you a way to increase the odds of success. Hey. Do what you like. But here’s my card in case you change your mind. And remember, we only have three weeks, so if you do decide to take advantage of the training, you need to do it right away.”
He shrugs into his jacket, then pulls out a card from an inside pocket. Molly’s camera clicks again, then she pushes it out of sight just as Sid opens the door, leans inside and says, “See ya, Bill. Thanks again.” With a wave and an oversized smile, he turns and leaves.
The boss is still holding the card when he comes back inside, grim faced and flushed.
I lie down beside Molly while we wait for the owner, who turns out to be an older woman dressed in a way that reminds me of Mrs. Franklin when she’s going to church. This woman is thinner and older than Mrs. Franklin, but has the same no-nonsense attitude.
She and the boss talk for a while about what we’d charge to search the place for bed bugs. Then the boss has her hide some vials in one of the rooms and brings me in to find them. Piece of cake, as the boss often says. A curious expression, since, although cake is great—love it!—for a dog, at least, getting a piece is not always easy. And I’ve never found cake under a mattress or behind a dresser.
We all go back to the office. “So,” the woman says, “has your dog there passed that NABBS test that Sid was talking about?”
“We take it in three weeks.” He gives her a strained smile. “But he’s been passing all the trials with flying colors.”
Flying colors. Another phrase I just don’t get. Birds have colors and they fly, but I don’t think the boss is talking about birds. And airplanes are usually just one color—kind of grayish, right? I remember when I was a pup, the first time a plane flew overhead, low and loud. Almost scared the water out of me. Anyway, can’t for the life of me figure what any of this has to do with passing tests. I doze off.
Next thing I know Molly gives the leash a tug and we’re headed back to the car.