A. Rich - The Hand That Feeds You

“He heard Chester get shot,” I said. “Should I tell the judges?”

“It’s not that uncommon a response,” Billie said. “More dogs run away during Fourth of July fireworks than any other time of year.”

It took the handler a minute or two to reassure George. She finally got him into a sit and told him he was a good boy. Even from this distance, I saw him lick the handler’s hand. But after walking comfortably across the sheet of crinkling plastic, he balked at walking across the metal grate. He planted himself, deadweight, and went on strike. The handler pulled on his lead, and we could hear George growl.

“Shit,” I said. “His paws are tender from years in a damp cage. Don’t these people understand there are contingencies?” Instantly I was in tears from the impossible situation — I was standing up for my dog, a dog that had killed. Did Bennett try to pull George over the heat grating in the floor of my apartment? I was looking for any way to account for what had happened.

Billie responded to my distress by putting an arm around my shoulder for just a moment. “It’s not over till it’s over.”

When it was over, the judges announced that they would be willing to retest George at a later date. The anxiety of watching the two tests left me exhausted and despairing. Billie asked if I’d eaten anything that morning, and when I told her I had not, she said a diner with lousy coffee and great pancakes was a couple of blocks from here. She offered to drive me.

The leather seats of her Volvo were surprisingly free of dog hair given the time she spent with the shelter dogs — unlike the leather couch that Steven had given me, which I had to cover with a throw before Bennett came over.

“Thank you for bringing George,” I said.

The diner was nothing like Champs. The tattoos we saw on the patrons of this diner were standard-issue armed services and MOM-in-a-heart tats. The pancakes here were not gluten-free. I ordered a stack of chocolate chip with whipped cream, and Billie had the lousy coffee.

I had not confided in a girlfriend since Kathy’s death. Though I barely knew this Billie, I found myself telling her about Bennett and his deception. The more I talked, the more I talked. In a headlong rush, I told her the crazy-making story, with its blind spots and question marks, how we met online while I was conducting research on sociopaths and victims, clear on up to the fake address in Montreal and the key to it he had given me. Billie said he reminded her of a guy she used to see, a guy who had lied to her continuously and said, when she confronted him about the lying, that he was just trying to entertain her.

“ ‘I lie to myself all the time,’ ” Billie quoted.

“ ‘But I never believe me,’ ” I finished.

“ The Outsiders ,” we said together. “S. E. Hinton.”

Turned out we had both seen the film of this novel many times, about greasers in Tulsa, Johnny and Ponyboy, one of whom kills a member of a rival gang. Matt Dillon, Patrick Swayze, Rob Lowe, and Tom Cruise were in it before they were stars.

“Bennett’s story also has a murder.” I told her about Susan Rorke.

“Do you think Bennett killed her?”

“The police do.”

“Why do the police think he did it?” Billie asked.

“They always suspect the husband or fiancé.”

“Bennett was engaged to her, too?”

“He gave her the same ring he gave me.”

“That would be the suffer-ring? I hope it was expensive.”

“I thought it was.” God, I had missed this. “Can I ask you something personal? You’re always at the shelter, you take a day off for this — how do you support yourself?”

“I’m a trustafarian. Under close supervision. My grandmother doesn’t trust me.”

The waitress finally set down the pancakes in front of me.

“So what do the police do when their prime suspect is dead? They can’t exactly try him,” Billie said.

“I don’t think Susan Rorke and I were the only women Bennett deceived. I think I’ve heard from a third.”

“Reportyourex.com?”

“Lovefraud.com. She said she wanted to meet me in person but she didn’t show up.”

“There are many reasons why she might not have shown up.”

“She pretended to be Susan Rorke. Maybe she didn’t know Susan Rorke was dead.”

“Maybe she did.”

When the check came, Billie reached for it even though she had only ordered coffee.

In the car heading back to the city, I said, “He used a different name with her. He called himself Peter. But it was him. I showed the detective a picture and he confirmed it.”

“So who is the third woman?”

“Maybe she’s the tenth.”

“Maybe the dogs did you a favor.”

“Nothing I didn’t already think.”

“I mean, he pushed her out a window.”

“He was never violent with me. But how could I not know?”

“The dogs knew.”

• • •

I asked Billie to drop me off on Delancey Street so I could walk across the Williamsburg Bridge. I needed to do something physical and mindless. The view was of downtown Manhattan, with the two stately bridges — the Manhattan and the Brooklyn — spanning the lower East River. The Brooklyn Bridge was the first to be built — the longest suspension bridge of its time, and one of the most beautiful. The Manhattan was third, a gridwork of metal struts. In between came the Williamsburg, said to be the ugliest design on the river. But it’s not what you see when you’re walking across it. The view trumps the noise of trucks, cars, and subways flanking the hardy pedestrians and cyclists. Even Edward Hopper painted a view titled From Williamsburg Bridge. The walkway ends in the Hasidic neighborhood where women still wear wigs and the men grow side-curls and beards. Even in the heat of summer, come the Sabbath, the men wear the large fur hats known as shtreimel. Within the space of ten blocks, you hear conversations in Yiddish, then Spanish, then Chinese, then Italian. It’s part of why I moved here.

I climbed the five flights to my apartment and found a phone message from the Boston detective. It wasn’t yet five so I called him right away.

“Ms. Prager, I have a few questions for you in the investigation of Susan Rorke’s murder. Is this a good time to talk?”

“As good as any.”

“I’d like to ask you about the weekend she was killed when you met the man you knew as Bennett in Maine.”

“What can I tell you?”

“You said he drove from Montreal to Old Orchard Beach. What time did he arrive?”

“He arrived an hour after I did, around four, but I don’t know if he drove from Montreal.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about his behavior or appearance?”

“He was his usual self, but later I saw a large bruise on his shin. He said he got it moving one of his bands’ equipment, but that was a lie. He didn’t represent any bands.”

“And when did you find out that he lied about his job?”

“And everything else. A few weeks after he died. Have you had any luck finding out who he is?”

“We have a protocol to follow in a murder investigation. Have you been contacted again by the woman posing as Susan Rorke?”

“No, but who was she ? That’s my question for you. And how did she know about Bennett and Susan and me?”

“We’re trying to find out.”

“What have you found out? Do you know who Bennett was?”

“I’ll tell you when I know.”

“But you think he’s guilty?”

“Only a judge and jury can find him guilty,” the detective said, “and the dead can’t be tried.”

That night I went to the Turkey’s Nest on Bedford, picked up a guy, and went home with him. This wasn’t a plan, it’s just what I did. The Turkey’s Nest has the least hip jukebox in Williamsburg and caters to the last of the blue-collar crowd. In a moment of splendid irony I put my quarters in the jukebox and selected Patsy Cline singing “Crazy.” As the song ended, a good-looking guy asked me why I’d chosen that song. I had two whiskeys in me already and said, “See who’s crazy enough to ask me to dance to it.”