He held out his hand to the nurse. "Charcoal."
The nurse handed him an aerosol can. He sprayed the contents down Cha-Cha's throat.
The vet turned. "I suppose you're going to tell me that this dog went on a bender at Fido's Bar, lured by bar bitches, all in heat." He studied Jazz and Waltz in turn. "Who fed this dog beer?"
Jazz did not speak. Tears ran down his cheeks.
Waltz glanced at Jazz. "I did."
The vet glared at Waltz.
Waltz hung his head. "It was a joke."
"You idiot! Giving a dog beer - or anything alcoholic. Even if they like it. It's dog abuse."
Waltz backed into the doorway. "He's okay. He'll have a little hangover in the morning, that's all."
"I don't think so."
"He won't have a hangover? After all that beer?"
Jazz grabbed the vet's shoulders. "You mean he's dead?"
"He's alive, but he's in a coma. How long he'll last is anybody's guess."
Waltz sank against the doorjamb. Cha-Cha in a coma? How could it be? Beer never put him in a coma before. "Aw, he'll be okay."
The vet glared at Waltz. "You think so? You feed him, a Chihuahua, enough beer to kill a great Dane and then you say he's going to be okay? As though that makes things all right?"
Jazz bent over Cha-Cha and hugged him. "Poor little Cha-Cha, my best friend." Tears flowed from his eyes. Blood drained from his forehead, mingled with the tears, and dripped onto Cha-Cha.
The vet peered at Jazz's face. "Sir, did you know your forehead is bleeding?"
Jazz removed one arm from Cha-Cha. He felt his forehead. He examined the blood on his hand. He didn't seem to understand.
Waltz touched Jazz's shoulder. "You banged your head on the doorjamb as we left the office."
Jazz examined his bloody hand. "I didn't feel it. I didn't feel it at all. I can't believe it." He sobbed.
He collapsed into a chair. "Why me? Why me?"
The vet pulled up a stool and blotted Jazz's gash. He applied a bandage. "That'll stop the bleeding. It's minor."
Jazz pushed himself out of his chair and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. He petted Cha-Cha. "Oh, Cha. I'm sorry, Cha. I'm sorry."
Waltz's eyes teared. Poor little Cha-Cha. He wasn't so bad. Waltz reached to touch him.
Jazz pushed Waltz away and stepped closer to the table, shielding Cha-Cha. "You stay away from him."
"I just wanted to comfort him."
Jazz pushed Waltz again. "Stay away." Jazz fumbled with the knot on Cha-Cha's neckerchief. He couldn't get his fingers to loosen it. He collapsed onto his chair, sighed, and put his face in his hands. His shoulders shook.
Waltz untied the knot and draped the neckerchief over Jazz's thigh.
Jazz picked up the scarf and folded it, smoothing it on his knee. He dried his eyes with it and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. He stroked Cha-Cha.
Jazz cleared his throat. "Is he suffering?"
"Not at all. He passed out. If he dies, he'll never know what happened."
Jazz gazed at the vet with tearful eyes. "Are you sure? He felt no pain? I have to know."
"It's like he went to sleep. He felt no pain. The alcohol acts like an anesthetic."
"Somebody poisoned him."
The vet glared at Waltz. "You got that right. Alcohol is a poison."
Jazz continued to pet Cha-Cha. "What if somebody poisoned him? Would he feel any pain?"
"He just drank too much beer."
"But what if somebody poisoned him? With something besides alcohol? It's possible isn't it?"
The nurse nudged the doctor.
The doctor glanced at the nurse. "Yeah, sure, anything's possible."
"Then would he feel any pain?"
"Depends on the type of poison. Some poisons cause extreme pain, though mixed with alcohol, maybe not."
"Can you tell for sure if he was poisoned?"
"What's the point? He stinks of beer. That's what poisoned him."
"If there was a point, if there was a reason to believe he was poisoned, how would you go about it?"
"I'd have to take samples and have them tested."
"Do it. I want to know if somebody poisoned him. And I want to know if he felt any pain."
The vet shook his head. "It'd be a waste of time and money."
The nurse poked the vet.
Jazz grabbed the vet's shoulder. "Do it!"
The nurse poked the vet again. The vet turned to her and shrugged his shoulders. "Okay."
Jazz swayed and grabbed the vet's shoulders to steady himself. "Do it. I don't care how much it costs."
Chapter 2
She Won't Dance
The next afternoon, Waltz sat at his desk, looking through the big picture window into the ballroom. Three instructors were practicing. "I wonder how Cha-Cha's doing."
A fast salsa, Lala's favorite, played over the office speakers. Lala, Jazz's wife, dipped two fingers into her bra and retrieved her roll of cash, the dull green of the bills set off against her lime-green blouse. "Who care? Is just a dog. Jazz should worry more about the studio, before we go broke. How much money he spend at the vet?"
"I don't know." Waltz made another halfhearted entry on the computer. He hated accounting work. Jazz made him do it. "I thought you liked Cha-Cha. All the girls like Cha-Cha."
"I love Cha-Cha but he is a dog. You can always get a new dog. They are all the same. They bark. They scratch." Lala opened the roll and flattened the bills on her desk, patting them smooth. She pulled a red pen out of her desk and, in the right corner of each bill, both sides, put her mark.
Waltz watched her, fascinated by what she was doing and even more fascinated by her body. Her good parts jiggled and tried to burst free of her clothes, even as she sat at her desk. "Why are you marking your bills?"
He knew why, but he wanted her to talk to him. He wanted to hear her Mexican accent and watch those pouty lips move.
"Because, my pretty, I want my money back if someone steal it." Her olive complexion glowed. Her full lips pouted.
They challenged you to kiss them. You wanted to kiss the smugness out of them - but leave in the pout. "Even the strongest thief couldn't pry your purse out of your hands."
Her lips pouted again. "Bad men can get money out of anybody's hands."
"Don't worry. The cops would find your money for you."
Lala fondled another bill and marked it. "No way. The police are stupid and corrupt."
He loved the way her pouty lips trilled the R's. "Ah, Lala. That may be true in Mexico, but not here in Texas."
Lala pondered the point. "I no trust them. I will find the bills with my mark. I will do it myself, solo."
"Anybody can mark a bill. You ought to list the serial numbers. If somebody stole your money, you could give the cops the list. They'd find your money."
She studied him, face serious.
Waltz loved her serious face. "You could still mark your bills and search on your own."
She took some index cards out of her desk and started recording serial numbers.
"Just the big bills. No point in recording anything under twenty."
"Nobody will take none of my money."
"You should be the accountant." Waltz leaned back in his chair. "What do you think about Jazz's theory that somebody poisoned Cha-Cha?"
"He is crazy in his coconut. I bet he pay the vet much money to test for poison."
Waltz entered another invoice. Their cash balance was getting low.
The ancient computer's screen went blank. No surprise. Waltz guessed the hard drive died.
Jazz strode into the office, leaned back in his chair to its usual squeak, and put his feet up on his desk, hands behind his head.
Waltz couldn't stand it. "So, is he okay?"
Jazz brought his arms down. "Of course he's not okay. He's poisoned."
"But he's still alive?"
"He's still in a coma. The vet says he might make it."
"Good. I hope
so."
Jazz tapped a business card on his teeth. "Somebody poisoned him."
"It wasn't the beer?"
"I got the report from the vet. Somebody gave Cha-Cha sleeping pills, knowing he drank lots of beer, knowing the pills and the alcohol would kill him. The vet said he felt no pain, thank God. He said that alcohol and sleeping pills both are depressants, so Cha-Cha just went to sleep. In effect, he just passed out. No pain at all."
"I'm glad he didn't suffer." Waltz shrugged. "Why would anyone poison an innocent dog?"
Jazz laughed - without amusement. "You're asking me?"
Waltz leaned forward in his chair. "Last night, you thought somebody poisoned him. Why?"
"I have good reasons. I'm not going into them now."
"But who would do it? And why?"
Lala pulled her cash box out of the desk drawer, unlocked it, and recorded more serial numbers. "A monster that hated Jazz might do it. With such a one as Jazz in charge, plenty of monsters here at the studio wish to do him harm."
Jazz slammed the card down on his desk. "I'm going to get the lowlife scum that did it."
Waltz's eyes went back to Lala, recording serial numbers. "You know who did it?"
"I've got an idea who it was. Yes." Jazz picked up the card and waved it around. "And I've got a secret weapon."
"A card? A card is a secret weapon?"
"That's right. I'm going to hire a private detective." Jazz consulted the card. "Hook 'Em Harns. Lala, have you heard of her?"
Lala shook her head. "I hate police. They always take the bite."
Jazz's eyebrows went up. "The bite?"
"Yes, you know, the bite." She looked to Waltz.
Waltz loved the way she talked. "You mean... a bribe?"
"Yes. They take the bribe."
Jazz laughed. "Texas is not like Mexico. Besides, this is a private detective."
"That mean what?"
"She works for herself, not the public."
"Yes, yes. Is the same in Mexico. They work for themselves. They take the bribe."
"This one's honest." Jazz turned to Waltz. "You heard of her?
"Nah."
"I've heard good things about her. I've got her number." Jazz tapped the card on his desk and handed it to Waltz.
"Ah Jazz. Why do I have to do all the stuff that's beneath you?" He put the card on Jazz's desk.
Jazz slapped the card into Waltz's hand. "Because it's beneath me. Do it."
Waltz slammed the card down on his desk.
Lala stuffed her cash back in the box and locked it. She cradled it in her arms. "What is the price of this detective?"
Jazz shook his head, got up, walked around Lala's desk, and caressed her shoulders. He massaged them. His manner showed he possessed her. "Stop harping about money. I'm going to get the creep that poisoned Cha-Cha. I don't care if we go broke."
Lala's fingers tightened on her cash box. "Is a dog. I no understand why you must pay for a detective. Forget it."
"I love Cha-Cha."
"You waste much money. Our cash is small. We will lose the studio."
Jazz removed his hands from Lala's shoulders. "I have to get the creep that poisoned Cha-Cha. Don't you understand? I love Cha-Cha. You don't know what love means."
"For sure. I married you."
The squabble was about to take off into one of their famous fights. Waltz interrupted. "It doesn't make sense to hire a detective. We don't have much cash. Besides, she could never find out who did it."
Jazz scowled. "I can't see any reason why you wouldn't want to hire a detective." His voice was a whisper.
"I don't see how she could do it."
"But you're not a detective, are you?"
"No."
"So it makes sense that you wouldn't know how she could do it, right?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"So hire her."
Waltz picked up the card and threw it at Jazz. It caught the air, veered away, and fluttered to the floor. "You hire her."
Jazz watched the card as though it had the answer to something that was bothering him. "Only three of us were there. Me, Xenia, and you. Xenia adores him."
Waltz's gut flopped. "Are you serious?"
Jazz's face reddened. "You never picked Cha-Cha up. You never even petted him."
"How could I? I would've lost an arm."
"You were always complaining about him. Claiming he bit you. Claiming he tore your pants."
Waltz jumped to his feet. "Sure. I complained about him. Because he did bite me. He did tear my pants - and you laughed. But I didn't poison him."
"So are you saying that Xenia did it?"
"Well... no... but... plenty of people could have poisoned him. People were in and out of your office all day, playing with him. Rachel was, just before we closed on Xenia."
"So you didn't do it?"
"No."
"Then you shouldn't object to getting the detective. You should want her to clear you. Hire her."
Waltz's gut flopped again. He sat and struggled to breathe.
Jazz slapped the card back on Waltz's desk.
Waltz picked it up. Hook 'Em Harns, Domestic Investigations.
To hell with Jazz. Screw the private detective. Waltz'd go to the cops. They were honest. They served the public. They worked free. Lala would like that.
***
Waltz swallowed. "I'd like to report a crime."
The cop clicked his keyboard. "Go ahead."
Waltz smoothed his hair. "Somebody tried to kill my brother's dog."
"A dog? Did you say a dog?"
"Yeah."
"They were fighting dogs?" The cop placed his fingers on his keyboard.
"What do you mean?"
The cop leaned back. "You know. Making the dogs fight. Betting on them."
"Oh, no. Nothing like that." Waltz laughed. "He's a Chihuahua."
"Can't help you."
"But my brother thinks I did it."
"Tell him you didn't."
The phone rang. The cop answered it and jabbered cop jargon. He hung up. His eyes returned to Waltz.
"My brother's mad at me. You've got to help."
The cop's fitted and starched uniform crackled as he moved. "I can fill out a report, but nothing will come of it."
"Nothing will come of it?"
"Right. So your brother's dog is dead? So what? Get your brother a new one. They got lots of them at the pound."
"He's not dead. He's in a coma."
"He's not dead? You want us to investigate the attempted murder of a dog? Attempted murder? How can you know somebody attempted to murder him - a dog?"
"Because we took him to the vet. He passed out."
"He passed out?"
"He drank too much beer, but the vet tested his body fluids. Somebody gave him sleeping pills. Somebody tried to kill him."
"Sounds like attempted suicide. We can't take the time to investigate the attempted suicide of a dog."
Waltz shook. The cops were supposed to help everybody - solve any crime. That's what they were paid for. "Let me talk to somebody in authority."
The cops stood up, his face red. "Somebody in authority? Are you kidding?"
"I'm dead serious."
The cop opened his mouth, but didn't speak. He collapsed into his chair. He smiled. "How about the lieutenant?"
"The lieutenant would be fine."
The cop picked up his phone. "Lieutenant, there's a man here who insists on reporting an attempted murder directly to you." The cop listened and smiled. "That's right, sir. He's an outraged citizen. He won't take no for an answer."
Waltz could see no reason for the cop's amusement. Trying to murder Chihuahuas was serious business, a gateway crime to homicide, serial murder, terrorism, and communism.
A small, withered cop in a withered suit sauntered down the hall and stopped in front of Waltz. "You want to report an attempted murder?" His eyes were dull and his voice was emotionless, cold.
Waltz took a deep
breath. "Somebody poisoned my brother's dog."
The lieutenant reached under his coat and adjusted his shoulder holster. "Did you explain that to the desk sergeant?"
"Yes, I did."
"What did he say?"
"He said I could fill out a report, but nothing would come of it."
The lieutenant smiled. It didn't seem a friendly smile. "Then fill out the report."
"But nothing would come of it."
The lieutenant moved closer. His smile faded. "That is correct, sir." His voice remained flat and neutral.
Waltz shivered and stepped back a bit. He couldn't help himself. "But my brother is upset."
The cop behind the desk pounded on the bullet-proof glass. "He said his brother accused him of doing it."
"Your brother thinks you did it?"
"Well ... yeah. I want you to catch the guy that did ... to prove I didn't."
"Why does he think you did it?"
Waltz stepped back a bit more. "He really doesn't. He said it, but he was upset at the time."
The lieutenant stepped forward, his face in Waltz's. "So why'd you tell the desk sergeant he did?"
"I don't know. I sort of blurted it out. My brother doesn't really believe it."
"So you lied?"
"No. It's... complicated."
"I don't blame your brother. A punk like you is the first person I would suspect." The lieutenant stepped forward. "You know what we do when a suspect lies to us?"
Waltz stepped back, shaking his head.
"We take them in for questioning." The lieutenant grabbed Waltz's arm. "Come this way." He stopped and called over his shoulder to the desk sergeant. "Send me one of those new digital truncheons, one of the big ones."
Waltz laughed. Digital truncheon. Yeah, right. What did it do, beat you on its own, while the lieutenant leaned idly back in his chair?
Waltz's arm went numb from the grip the lieutenant had on it. The lieutenant hustled Waltz into a small room painted battleship gray. Four chairs surrounded a table bolted to the floor. The lieutenant dragged Waltz to one of the chairs, forced him down, and cuffed him to the table.
A wiseass cop couldn't intimidate Waltz. The law prohibited roughing up a suspect. He was a citizen and the cops were going to do their job.
The lieutenant answered a knock on the door. A cop handed him a truncheon, wrapped in plastic. The lieutenant unwrapped it and deposited the plastic in the trashcan.
Waltz tried to see if the truncheon had a switch somewhere. It would have to have a switch if it was digital.
Like a gunfighter twirling his six shooter, the lieutenant spun the truncheon. He jabbed and punched with it, grunting like a martial artist. He stopped, rested the truncheon on his shoulder like a rifle, and turned on the recorder, stating his name, the date, the place, and ordered Waltz to state his full name.