Faye Kellerman - The Garden Of Eden And Other Criminal Delights

I ran toward the old man but was immediately halted by Maneater’s growl.

“Nice dog,” I tried. “Make nice, nice dog.”

I took a step forward and so did he. I took a step backward and so did he.

“For God’s sake, Conroy,” I shouted in desperation. “Call Maneater off!”

Conroy pointed to his throat.

“You’re choking ?” I said.

Conroy gave a vigorous nod.

His right cheek was empty.

“The tobacco! He’s choking on his tobacco ,” I yelled out. “Give Maneater a hand signal.”

Conroy flailed his hands in the air. Maneater sat, acting as though the signals meant something. Yet when I tried to approach Conroy, the dog lunged at me.

We were hamstrung. The dog wouldn’t let us near Conroy, and Conroy couldn’t call Maneater off.

“Hit your chest, old man,” Dr. Haberson said. “Try to do a Heimlich maneuver on yourself. Hit your sternum hard! Right here!” The doctor demonstrated the procedure.

Conroy tried and tried again. Meanwhile, he was turning bluer and bluer.

“Give it another try, Conroy!” I said. “Or just hold the dog off physically.”

By then Conroy was the color of the sky. He fell onto the sand and blacked out, his body shaking as if he were having a seizure. It was awful. Maneater circled his master, licking his quivering arms and legs, nudging his face. But he snarled at anyone who attempted to come within helping range.

Mrs. Bermuda said, “First time I’ve ever seen a dog protect his master to death.”

We tried to tempt Maneater away with meat. We tried to poke him away. We even tried a decoy method, using me as bait. Nothing would lure him away from his master. By the time Animal Control came with the tranquilizing gun, it was too late.

The dog was well trained.

“The Back Page” comes from one of those urban legends that circulated when I was in dental school way back in the Pleistocene age. No doubt, the story is as apocryphal now as it was then. Then again, with all these UFO sightings, one never knows…

He was always the first one there. Mr. Johnny-on-the-Spot. Radar Robert Roadrunner. The Scoop. No matter how fast the other stringers moved, Biggy Hartley always managed to arrive before anyone else.

No one could figure it out.

Some of it made sense. Hartley worked for the Chronicle, and the paper had the largest circulation. Stood to reason that it would have the most sources and the best resources. But even among his fellow reporters at the Chronicle, Hartley proved to be the early bird, finishing up when the others began, waiting with the proverbial worm in his mouth.

At first it was annoying. Then it became irritating. Finally, it turned out to be downright frustrating. And Hartley played the part to the hilt. Chomping on a cigar like a catbird-seated character out of a forties play. Arching his fat eyebrows and spitting bits of tobacco into the waste can.

When his colleagues expressed their consternation at his seemingly extraterrestrial sense of timing, Hartley answered evasively.

“I just get this feeling.” Chomp. Spit. “Can’t explain it. Like a buzz in my head.”

“C’mon,” they’d insist. “Who are you bribing?”

“You wish it was that simple.” Hartley smoothed back thin, ash-colored hair and smiled widely with yellowed teeth. “It’d make you look better to the boss, wouldn’t it? Nah, you can’t rationalize away my success with money. Some people just got the knack. Can’t help it. Just got the knack.”

Hartley had grown up in San Diego. None of his coworkers could understand why he spoke with a mid-Atlantic accent.

It wouldn’t be so bad if the man had an ounce of humility. Instead, each success instilled into Hartley renewed arrogance. He boasted, bragged, and preened like a peacock, spending hours in front of the mirror practicing badass looks.

Narrow the eyes, wrinkle the nose… yeah, that’s right. Now the sneer, raising the upper lip at the corner. Perfect.

Comical, except that Hartley got results. Which meant frequent raises and invitations to important functions. He would often arrive at the dinners in a rumpled suit with an open-necked shirt and scuffed shoes. His manner was abrasive. He flirted shamelessly with other men’s wives. He had dirt underneath his fingernails.

“You can act any way you want as long as you’re number one!” he told fellow reporter Carolyn Hislop. They were sitting in Hartley’s office. As numero uno ace reporter, Hartley was the only investigative reporter on the paper who had a genuine room with walls and a door that closed. The rest of the plebeians, as he often called them, were stuck with cubicles.

“C’mon!” Carolyn answered. “Everyone knows you’ve got some kind of card up your sleeve. You’re not a warlock. No one can be number one all the time.”

“I can!” Hartley answered.

A distasteful expression swam across Carolyn’s pretty face. For once Hartley decided to pull back. He decided not to spit tobacco into his waste can. He decided not to brag or boast or talk in his mid-Atlantic accent. Because he liked Carolyn. She had big blue eyes and cleavage. He wanted to get into her pants.

“I can’t explain it,” he said, trying to act very sincere. “I get this feeling, Carolyn.”

“What kind of feeling?”

“Like this buzz or this signal inside my brain.” As Hartley talked about it, he realized he really couldn’t explain it. He took a handful of nuts and popped them into his mouth. Chewing as he talked, he said, “I hear like a shortwave radio. Sometimes I even hear words… like the cops are talking to me.” He paused. “Plus, I sleep with the news station on. I hear lots of things in my sleep.”

“C’mon!” she shot back, doing her best Lois Lane. “We all sleep with the news station on. We all hear the cops talking over the shortwave. We all hear the transmissions as they’re going down. Why are you always first?”

“You hear the transmissions that come over the public lines.” Hartley took another fistful of goobers. “In my case, I hear the private TAC lines… the cops talking to each other before it even makes its way to the RTO. I just hear it in my brain-ah, shit! ”

“What’s wrong?”

“I bit into a piece of shell.” Hartley spat into the waste can. Carolyn grimaced. He said, “Friggin’ nut can. It says shelled . The nuts are supposed to be shelled. I’m gonna sue the bastards.”

“You do that,” Carolyn said. “Claim mental as well as physical distress. By the way, I think you’re putting me on… all that crap about hearing it in your head.”

“No!” Hartley protested. “I’m not putting you on. Why would I put you on? I’m trying to get into your pants.”

Carolyn frowned. “Not a chance.”

“Even if I shared my byline with you?”

She pondered the offer. “For how long?”

“A month-”

“Nope.”

“A year?”

She nodded. “Maybe.”

“Wait,” Hartley backtracked. “A year’s too long. Six months.”

“Screw you.”

“C’mon,” Hartley said. “I’ll get you invited to all the parties. Drinks at Mais Oui, dinner at Pretensio’s-”

“I don’t need your smarmy deals. I can get invited on my own.”

“Yeah, so why haven’t I seen you there?”

“Because I haven’t made my move yet.”

Meaning she hadn’t shown enough skin to their lecherous boss. The man was a total sucker for a big pair of boobs.

“Besides,” Carolyn went on, “I’d rather lay him than you. Why eat hamburger when you can get steak?”

“Sometimes a hamburger can be very tasty.”