Walter Mosley - A Little Yellow Dog

There was a light on in the house and a dark ’58 Thunderbird in the driveway. The porch was unlighted and I stood there in front of the door for a good minute before ringing the bell.

I stood waiting on that cool step because I wanted to control my temper. I should have told Sanchez about the dog; if he had been friendly I probably would have. But that cop could have looked into my business; my job history, my kids. And just by looking he could have destroyed all that I had built. I blamed Idabell for that. Leaving her damn dog with me and then lying about his accident. I was an accomplice to something and I wasn’t even sure what.

Nobody answered on the first ring, or the second. I put my ear to the door after five tries; not a sound. The doorknob didn’t turn. The window, hidden by the secret berry tree, was locked.

I could have gone home then — I should have. But the street had been calling me all day long. I had been seduced, hoodwinked, and blamed for a thief; I’d been bullied and looked at like a crook instead of an honest man. I could have gone home but I knew that I wouldn’t be able to sleep.

The side driveway consisted of two slender paths of concrete laid to accommodate the wheels of a car. Spare grass sprouted here and there in the trail of dirt that passed in between the cement tracks.

The backyard was dark and overgrown with shrubs and vines. Anything could have happened back there in the dark. I was no longer in the law-abiding workaday world. I was alone, hanging by a thread again.

The back door wasn’t open but the sliding window was. I slipped my hand in and twisted the knob.

The back porch housed an old-time washing machine. A big barrel-shaped thing that had a chrome arch over the top. There were clothes that had been left in the washer for days; they had begun to mildew.

I went from there into an unlit kitchen. Even in the dark I could see the mess. Dirty dishes piled everywhere, the stench of garbage. I could feel grit on the floor through the soles of my shoes.

The dining room held a faint glow from the light of the room beyond it.

I froze there next to the maple table when I saw two shod feet in the next room. They were the feet of a man reclining on his sofa chair.

I don’t know how long I stood there; thinking about walking backwards, thinking about calling out or maybe just walking in on him. I looked around for a bludgeon to use if he came at me but there were only fragile teacups on the table.

Finally, without thinking about it, I walked right in.

I wasn’t thinking but my fists were tight and my hips could have taken me in any direction I chose.

I thought I was ready for anything, but the dead man lying on the plaid chair almost took me out of my skin. How could it be? Somebody took him from behind the stand of bamboo at Sojourner Truth? No. From the police morgue? No. Sanchez?

The body laid out on the chair was the same one I had seen earlier. Same tweed suit, same snakeskin shoes, same olive skin and oily hair.

“Damn!” I said loudly. “Damn!” I had a sinking feeling in my groin and there was sweat at the back of my neck. It was a fear from way back in my boyhood days in Louisiana. I remember thinking that if he got up from that chair I would have run all the way to the ocean.

But then my rational mind kicked in. This man had blood down his chest. He was stabbed or, more probably, shot in the heart. His temple was unmarked. And this man’s eyes were closed.

Also he bore a big, dark red kiss on his cheek.

A good-bye kiss.

I wanted to run but instead I forced myself to stay and look around. The blood was dry. The man laid out in the chilly room had been dead for many hours. He could spare a few minutes more.

I scanned the disheveled room but nothing registered. My breath was coming in gasps and, for the second time that day, my heart was playing the drums.

I forced myself to stare at the low coffee table that was off to the corpse’s left. There lay a crumpled pack of Salems, a plate completely filled with the red shells of pistachio nuts, a nearly empty fifth of Gilbey’s gin, a single glass, and a black-bladed knife. The knife was curved like a boomerang, the inner curve sharpened for hacking away thick vegetation.

The glass was handblown and had a thick green base.

He hadn’t finished his last drink.

The bedroom was a mess too. I remembered that Idabell said she’d been away. Holland, I supposed, was one of those men who expected women to clean up after them. There was a week’s worth of socks, underwear, and trousers on the floor. The bedclothes were piled up at the head of the bed. Four squashed down pillows had been stacked in the middle of the mattress. There were also a few drops of dried blood near the foot of the bed, near the pillows.

There had been two suitcases in the corner of the large walk-in closet. But one had been removed, leaving a suitcase-sized gap between its brother and the wall. There was also about an eighteen-inch space on the hanger rod. Only the man’s clothes remained. On top of his shoes sat three large shopping bags filled with thin blue rubber bands.

I don’t like handling the dead but there was no way out of it. There was no clue to the dead man’s murder in the house. Nobody broke in. Everything was out of place. Maybe Idabell had done it. But she’d said that they were in trouble. Maybe somebody wanted to kill her.

I had come that far. I could have left without looking, but who knew what would come back to me later on? Better make sure I knew all I could before I left. The most likely place to look was in the dead man’s pockets.

All he had was a wallet. But what a wallet it was. It was thick with pieces of paper: receipts, notes, addresses, ads, even a letter. He had six hundred-dollar bills and a wad of various other smaller denominations.

I was about to sit down and sift through the papers and cards when a light played across the window shade. It was only a passing car but I took it as a sign that I should go.

I reclaimed my fingerprints from the back door and window, then opened the front door and rubbed those surfaces down.

“Mr. Gasteau?” An elderly white woman was standing at the gate. I didn’t think that she saw my face because I was still partly hidden by the night and the berry tree.

I’m proud to say that homicide never crossed my mind. Instead I splayed my left hand in front of my face, using the spaces for my eyes. My right hand I held above my head, dangling the car keys. I crouched down low enough to be five foot six and walked at a sway as I strutted toward the woman like a fleshy and belled crab.

She fell back. “Oh.”

I went right to my car, turned the wheel out, and released the handbrake. When I hit the ignition I was already coasting down the hill. With any luck the old lady had bad vision or didn’t think to take down my plates.

With any luck.

Miss B. Shay lived on the second floor of a two-story stucco apartment building in Culver City. There was a bright talisman hanging from the protruding peephole of her front door; a small shield of brightly colored glass beads that came from somewhere in the lower Americas. I would have liked it, and the eye that placed it there, at any other time.

“Yes?” came a voice from behind the closed door.

“Miss Shay?”

“Who is it?”

“My name is Rawlins, ma’am. I came to ask you about your friend Idabell Turner.”

“What about her?” I didn’t blame her for wanting to keep the door closed against a big man who came knocking unannounced.

“It’s about her dog,” I said. “She left him with me today at work but then she took off and now I don’t know what to do.”

I guess the desperation in my voice convinced her. She opened the door to the length of the safety chain and filled that opening with her body.