Authors: M.A. MacAfee
Me and My Manny (7 page)
It was late, nearing ten p.m. and, though I seldom went out by myself after dark, the pantry was bare. Harry had been held up at work and wouldn’t be in until after midnight.
“Eat dinner without me and don’t wait up,” he’d said over the phone. In line with his suggestion, I decided to pick up an order of cheese nachos at an all-night minimart located about five blocks away.
While our neighborhood wasn’t strictly in the low-rent, crime-ridden district, it was close. So for the sake of security, I brought Wolf with me. I was about to heft him without his wheels and head for the elevator, when it struck me that he appeared too mirthful. If he were going to function as a prop to deter crime, he needed to cut a more imposing figure.
Given Wolf’s slight stature and his funny painted-on face, turning him into a tough-looking bodyguard wasn’t going to be easy. I considered strapping the bandolier he wore in the Seafair parade across his chest, but a guy out late at night looking like he’s packing might attract the wrong sort of attention.
So I worked with what I had, some military medals I’d purchased at an army-surplus store while shopping for Wolf’s western wear. I pinned several impressive-looking bars and crosses on Wolf’s chest and placed Harry’s old skipper’s hat on Wolf’s head. Not bad, I thought, driving toward the minimart with Wolf buckled in the passenger seat beside me. At least it was consistent with the nautical theme of his attire.
Lampposts cast an amber glow on the empty streets and lights from apartment windows blinked as I passed. Though the shopworn Volvo rattled as I drove, I felt confident that Wolf could play sentry if I needed to call for a tow truck and await its arrival.
“I’ll only be a minute, so no beeping the horn,” I warned Wolf as we pulled into the minimart’s deserted parking lot. To enhance Wolf’s real-guy impression, I switched on the radio and cranked up the gain.
Inside the store, I prepared my nachos at a dispenser with pumps for cheese, mustard, and catsup. On my way back to the clerk behind the counter, I spotted a man in a baggy black outfit lurking behind a rack of potato chips.
I had just set the nachos on the counter, when the young man came up behind me with a sawed-off shotgun poking out of his sleeve. “Open it.” He pointed the gun muzzle first at the clerk, then at the cash register.
Clearly stunned, the clerk hesitated, his eyes fastened on the waving gun.
“Now!” the robber shouted, looking hyped enough to be peaking on a meth high.
“Okay-okay-okay,” the clerk said. But in his haste punching keys to open the computerized cash register, he caused it to shut down.
The robber, all the more agitated, cursed and filched handfuls of candy bars that he stuffed in his pockets. Eyeing me, he flagged his gun. “You got a car?”
I glimpsed my old Volvo parked beyond the store window with the keys in the ignition. In the same instant, a probable future flashed before my eyes. Through a haze of dust, I saw myself, the crook, and the manny on a crosscountry road trip, drinking at cheap wayside honky-tonks, holding up gas stations, and shacking up in seedy motels. To avoid being taken hostage, I was about to claim I came to the minimart on foot. Instead I blurted, “A cop. There’s a cop out front.”
“Shit, man…shit.” The edgy crook shuffled from side to side and waved the gun back and forth.
All three of us glanced out the window at Wolf. His official-looking uniform was visible, but luckily his upper body was tilted forward so that his skipper’s cap shadowed his face. For whatever reason, Wolf at that moment looked like a high-ranking police officer catching up on paperwork.
“Go! Get going, before he looks up,” I urged. As the anxious crook wavered, I stepped toward the exit, readying to dart lest he start shooting.
With the gun still in his hand, the robber shoved out the door and took off in a clumsy run, dropping a couple of the heisted candy bars before he vanished into the night.
The clerk lurched forward with his eyes on my manny.
“No, wait.” I pushed my hand into his chest to stop him. “You can’t talk to him. He’s in the witness protection program. You’d better call the police in case that holdup jerk comes back.”
After all that, I left my dinner on the counter, rushed to my car and screeched out of the parking lot.
For the rest of the evening, I kept imagining my fate had Wolf not been there. He’d again proven to be a worthwhile expenditure.
Early the next morning, racket on the street fronting our apartment building drew me from my bed. Out the window, I saw an anchorwoman from a local TV station before a camera crew with a microphone in her hand.
I slipped on my robe and as I entered the living room, Harry came rushing through the front door, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and slippers.
“I was just down at the office, talking to Ernie. He says the media’s here because the clerk at the minimart gave them the license plate number of some guy who stopped a holdup last night. Ernie told them they made a mistake. He’s got no tenants in the witness protection program.”
“Good,” I said, though I doubted Ernie would know if anyone at Whitehall were in the secretive program. “Then we don’t have to worry.”
“Worry about what?” Suspicion filled Harry’s face.
“About Wolf scaring off the stickup man.”
“Care to run that by me again?”
“It’s simple,” I said casually, fearing Harry’s explosive temper. “Last night, around ten, I went out to get a bite to eat down at the minimart.”
“And?” he prompted, eyeing Wolf on the recliner still wearing the military medals.
“And I brought Wolf so I’d feel safer. You know how jumpy I get driving alone at night. Sure enough, I was right. I’m in the store, making my purchase, and some whacko with a sawed-off shotgun tries to holdup the place. Then Wolf steps in—”
Harry leaned forward, his eyes widening as he sucked in a breath.
“I mean, Wolf didn’t really step in. The crook just assumed he might, so he ran off without the booty. I’ll tell you, Harry,” I hastened to add, “a criminal will think twice before committing an offense against a woman traveling with an armed guard.”
“The manny was armed?”
“Not really, the uniform, the medals, and your skipper’s cap just made him look that way.”
Harry scrutinized the colorful ribbons and bars on Wolf’s chest. “I guess that explains why he’s been promoted to—” He stepped closer to the dazzling array. “It looks like he’s become a high-ranking general in the Prussian army?”
“Oh, is that what those medals are.” I glanced at the lounging manny. “That would make him Wolfgang der Fuhrer von Kin. Veeerrry impressive,” I said with a thick German accent.
Harry emitted a whimper. “Just one thing. How did he get in the witness protection program?”
“Well, I had to tell the clerk something.”
“And the clerk told the media, turning that jug head into a hero.”
“A hero? Our little crime stopper might be nominated for a good citizen’s award. He could receive a plaque with his name on it. And maybe be given a key to the city. He could even get to be Grand Marshall at next year’s Seafair parade!”
How about that, I mused, a hero, a leader, and possibly a candidate for political office. So I jumped ahead of myself, but he’d do a lot less damage than most politicians. A manny of the people. Just your ordinary down-home hick from the sticks, literally.
Harry pushed his reddening face closer to mine. “Do you realize that if the media can track you down from your license plates, so can the cops? What if they catch the crook and ask you to identify him in a lineup? What if they think the manny was me? What if I’m charged with impersonating a police officer?”
Harry’s series of speculations caused me to consider that even good publicity could have a downside. If the cops collared Harry for impersonating one of their own they might also put two and two together and finger him as the guy who attacked a couple of women in the park.
Then I felt a rush of indignation. “I almost get my ass shot off and all you can think about is yourself. Anyway, none of what you said will happen because no crime was committed. Thanks to Wolf.”
Harry lowered his head. “I’m sorry. It’s just…compared with his, my life has become really uneventful.”
Harry rarely helped with domestic chores, something he by implication regarded as women’s work. Since the manny had come on the scene, he had sometimes become more solicitous; at times, he was even indulgent toward me. So that morning when he offered to pick up donuts at the neighborhood bakery, I assigned him the task of gassing up my car while at it.
Minutes after Harry left, I opened the front door, holding a bag of trash for the chute. Spotting Spike in the hall, running in tight circles, chasing his tail, I quickly stepped back inside and engaged the lock.
Whenever the Pritchards next door forgot to lock their front door, Spike managed to flip the lever-style handle and sneak out. Under those circumstances, he often took the stairs down to the back alley, to the Dumpster that further attracted stray cats. I had only to wait a few minutes and he’d be gone.
Every year, ferocious dogs maul scores of innocent victims; some even kill a few. So my fear of Spike was not unfounded. And Spike epitomized ferocity. With a huge head and enormous jaws, he was daunting and larger than the average Rottweiler, weighing at least a hundred ten pounds. Yet it was less his muscular mass than his facial features that evoked terror. Spike’s beady black eyes were too close together—the sure sign of a common inbred. Though cunning by nature, Spike was just plain dumb, and no amount of training could smarten him up. The animal was the canine version of a thug.
I again peered through the peephole. Spike now appeared to be rolling in something, that or giving himself a back massage. Whatever the case, I realized that if Spike could work a standard door lever well enough to get out, he might manage to get back in. Only it was my apartment that I worried about. I could hear Spike’s sniffing the bottom of my door and it had increased since the manny moved in.
I checked the clock. It was almost nine, about the time Ruthie took Spike for his morning walk. Any second now, Mad Dog would be off to the park, hosing down fireplugs, and menacing squirrels.
Despite his threat to all living creatures, Spike required daily vigorous exercise. Brisk walks outdoors helped burn off some of his aggressive energy. On a stroll, Spike strained against the leash and veered off course as much as possible. If anyone approached with another dog, Spike would charge with his hair raised and his fangs bared until he was reined in. Spike’s threat to other animals caused his owners to outfit him with a leather muzzle. When wearing it, he looked like Hannibal Lector, another character with a taste for his own species.
And Spike was an eating machine. His insatiable appetite resulted in the need for gallon-sized poop bags, according to Ruthie.
After a few minutes, I once again looked out the peephole. Seeing nothing, I pressed my ear to the door. Spike seldom barked, his one commendable trait, especially for an apartment-house dog.
The coast clear, I stepped into the hall and glanced toward the elevator across from me to my right. I then looked leftward toward the trash chute and the fire exit. A new sign had been posted on the propped-open door. “Please Keep Closed” it read. About to head for the trash chute, I noticed a furry object at my feet. Reddish brown in color, it appeared to be a cat’s paw.
Without further inspection, I picked it up with a torn piece of my trash bag and, as I straightened, it dawned on me. Spike, a Rottweiler, didn’t have a tail! Meaning the tail I supposed he’d been chasing inside his tight circle must have belonged to Miss Kitty.
I rushed to the trash closet and tossed the paw along with my refuse down the chute. This was no joke, I thought, wiping my hands on my jeans. The ill-tempered Spike was not in the least playful. To him, every game was a grudge match, one that he insisted in winning. Be it tug-of-war with a rope or go fetch with a stick, Spike kept at it until he gained the prize. In exchange, he let his defeated playmates retain their limbs. But this time was different, and I thought I knew why.
The manny captivated Ruthie and caused her frustration with Jason to surface. Being dependent on her for everything, Spike felt threatened by Ruthie’s newfound enchantment. Though dumb as dirt, Spike was smart enough to sense that if Ruthie took up with a manny, he’d be off to the pound. The housebound Jason was not equipped to care for an animal any more than he could for himself.
I hurried back to my apartment and locked the door behind me. Spike was top dog around here, and he aimed to keep it that way. The manny had trespassed on Spike’s well-guarded territory and the predator meant to bag him as prey.
I looked at Wolf, sprawled on the recliner as if in a deep and dreamless sleep. This was more than just another turf war. That canine barbarian was out to eat my manny.
Dealing with a Phobic Neighbor
When Harry got back from the bakery, he banged on the front door. “Why the chain?”
After letting him in, I said that Spike had been out in the hall again. With a knowing nod, he went into the kitchen and placed the pink donut box on the table.
“Yesterday, I’m standing in the hall waiting for the elevator,” he said. “I begin hearing these weird sniffing sounds coming from inside the Pritchards’ front door. Curious, I go over and peek through the peephole, and not what I expect, I see a distorted eyeball looking back at me like something out of a horror movie.”
“It’s Spike. He hates the manny. It looks like a human being, but doesn’t smell or move like one.” I opened the pink box and sniffed the sugary cakes.
“Being a watchdog, Spike’s got a point,” Harry said. “Guess he’s not so dumb if he’s figured people look through that hole in the door, just not from the outside.”
I set two cups of coffee on the table and opened the fridge for the milk. “The Pritchards could get a security system for the price of that animal’s upkeep. Besides his daily care, they pay extra rental fees and higher insurance rates just to keep him here.”
“He makes Jason less anxious,” Harry said, lowering himself to a chair.
I sat across from him. “Jason maybe, but not Ruthie. It doesn’t make sense. They got this overkill watchdog up here on the fourth floor. Yet late at night in all kinds of weather, Ruthie has to take it out so it can relieve itself.”
Harry selected a gooey cherry Danish from the box. “Nobody’s gonna jump her with Spike along.”
“Nobody would have the opportunity, if she didn’t have the dog. It’s not like he’s a loyal pet full of unconditional love. It’s more like he’s the master and his enslaved owners exist to provide for him. No trainer will deal with him; no kennel will board him. It’s so bad that Ruthie can’t even go on an overnight trip.”
“You knew he was here when we signed the lease,” Harry said.
“I didn’t sign up to be stalked by a vicious beast. Always sniffing the baseboards, always trying to escape into the hall. One of these days, he’s going to kill somebody.”
“Or chew up your manny. By the way, my new chinos need to be exchanged for a larger size.”
“Those are Wolfs pants.” I reached for a chocolate-covered donut filled with creamy custard.
“What are you doing spending money on him?”
“It’s his money. He earned it through my escort service.”
“The dummy escort service? Get real.”
“You knew about my plans.”
“You can’t be serious.” For a long time, he stared at me. “You are. You’re actually going to try again.”
“With a different marketing approach, perhaps.” I bit into my donut; the intense sweetness electrified my taste buds and shocked my imperfect teeth. “It’s an eat-or-beeaten jungle out there. You got to claim your own money tree and give it a few good shakes.”
Harry cleared his throat. “I hate to interrupt your swing through the money trees, but would you mind dropping the vine and passing the milk?”
I did as he asked and went on. “After all, the price of venting on a nonjudgmental dummy is way less than the cost of seeking relief from some other outlet, booze, sex, whatever.” It sounded odd, but based on client accounts— all two of them—Wolf was a wholesome companion. “Lisa never gets to spend a moment alone. And when it comes to Ruthie, the manny’s at least given her more of a respite than Jason’s pill-pushing shrink, who, for all his credentials, lectures, and public appearances, has yet to make a dent in Jason’s phobic behavior.”
“You can’t compare a brilliant psychiatrist with a brainless dummy.” Harry sucked cherry jam from his fingertips.
“You can in my book. Britonia charges double for the house calls he makes, whereas my manny works cheap.”
“You get what you pay for,” Harry quipped.
“I never said a manny could handle Jason’s disorder. But in my opinion, neither can his overpriced doctor. Or for that matter, his overburdened wife. She’d go back to work, if it weren’t for Jason’s oddball act. So I told her, why don’t you pressure him into taking the dog out once in a while. Why does everybody around here have to feel worse so that Jason can feel better?”
“It’s best you mind your own business.” Harry paused then said, “Which from the looks of things appears to be another attempt at pandering.”
“Minding my own business is exactly what I’m up to. It’s not my fault that customers of the manny-mate operation speak to me in confidence. That’s why I assured them, what happens here, stays here.” I gestured zippering my lips.
“Whoda thunk it,” Harry mused. “Smart women dating a dummy.”
Though his comment sparked another idea, I let it slide and finished the last of my donut and wiping my sticky fingers on a paper napkin, said, “Just goes to show how deceptive appearances can be. Wolf may look like a laidback malingerer. But we shouldn’t underestimate what’s going on beneath that glossy veneer.”