In my last post, I shared how a writer's group I belonged to lead me to writing a short story based on the prompt The big dog is arrogant. I shared a segment of that story, the part I wrote based on that prompt, in my last post. You can read it here, if you haven't already.

Today I'm going to share the rest of that story, which I wrote a few days later. Probably not my best, but I hope you like it anyways.

Image from Pixabay.

Get Mugsy - Continued

Blind pigs are the rot. Hound speakeasies are the worst. Smelly and foul, the only things to count on are flea-bitten crotches in every chair and copulating canines in every corner. I knew Mugsy had to be there.

I picked myself off the pavement and slid out of the picture, made my way to the office as clandestine as a beat man could manage. Slippery I was. Not a soul noticed.

I had made a promise I felt obliged to keep and made it a short day.

Miss Candy Carruthers was The Big Man’s cousin. She came for a visit from down south once a year. I promised to occupy her for the evening, so after a quick change of clothes I skipped on down to the hotel lobby at the Chaise Sallet where Candy stayed while in town. I hadn’t seen her in a couple of years and, boy, did it prove to be a treat. She’s a kitten, if you know what I mean.

Right away, she recognized me. She stretched out her hand for a shake. I almost felt threatened. Soft hands could be a girl’s secret weapon.

“Hello, Mr. S. Good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” I said, and I meant it.

“What have you got planned for us tonight? Something big, I hope.”

Her wink told me she wanted something more than a platonic dance, though if a dance was what she wanted I could oblige her that. I suggested a movie instead.

“Oh, that would be delightful!”

I got lucky, real lucky. We were on our way to the theater, a leisurely stroll just a few blocks and around the corner, when guess who I might chance to meet? A small red border collie on a leash.

He and his owner stood at a corner waiting for a Walk sign to give its order. As I squeezed by, I stole a glance at the dog’s glinting collar embedded proudly with his name.

“Mugsy,” it read. It was him all right.

After passing out of earshot, I leaned over to Candy and whispered in her ear, “Would you mind a change of plans, my dear?”

“Whatever you wish, Mr. S.”

I never expected her to object, but little did I suspect the manner in which she would agree. Her voice caressed my ears like fine silk. I immediately grabbed her arm and, without a word, swung her a full one-eighty. As I did, she let escape a giggle and a girlishly soft but overly loud “Wheee!”

As much as I had looked forward to a joy ride, I knew that was not what this was going to be. I leaned again and whispered, “We must keep our voices down.”

“Okay, Mr. S,” she winked.

“See that dog there?” I pointed.

“Yes,” she whispered back.

“We’re trailing him. I’m on a mission.”

“What did he do?”

Her voice told me she might be playing along to some perceived game, but I had no time to explain.

“Later,” I said, patting her hand, then I slipped my arm between hers and her ribs, locked elbows, and hurried across the street after Mugsy and his owner. Then I remembered ever-faithful Rodney--the pet name I've given to my iron rod, a six shooter with a barrel as smooth as Candy's left leg--vested to my breast and hoped I didn’t move so close to Candy as to give her a scare.

We followed Mugsy for blocks, with lefts and rights down alleys and busy streets. Soon we found ourselves in a neighborhood I’d never been in before. Candy continued to play along and leaned over to whisper in my ear, “How much longer must we follow?”

“A little more,” I said with a pat and kept my eyes peeled to the dog.

Before long, the woman holding Mugsy’s leash – an older woman in a hat – stopped and turned toward a door facing the street. She fumbled in her purse for a set of keys, a process that took much too long. I drove Candy with my shoulder toward a lamp stand and pretended to make conversation with my back toward Mugsy and the old woman.

“Tell me when she enters the door,” I whispered.

A few seconds later she mouthed, “Now.”

I glanced over my shoulder, then ran to the door to catch it before it closed. I just made it. Pressing it a little, I peered through the dark jamb and caught a glimpse of the two turning up the stairs at the top of the first flight. I motioned for Candy and we followed.

At the top of the stairs were two doors, one on the left and one on the right. I knocked on the left door. No answer. I knocked on the right.

“Who is it?” A woman’s voice answered.

“Building inspection,” I said. Then I whispered to Candy, “Play along,” as if she wouldn’t know. She nodded with a smile. The door opened.

“Be quick,” the woman said curtly. “I have to leave soon.”

“Yes ma’am,” I said politely and pretended to check out the walls as I secretly kept an eye out for Mugsy. I found him in the kitchen drinking water from a dish. I bent and pet him in the usual way one does when meeting a new dog which one supposes to be friendly. And in the friendliest voice I could find amid the lump in my throat I said, “Hey, Mugsy. Aren’t you a pretty dog?”

He barked his enthusiasm, a smart agreement if I ever heard one. But the look he gave me from the corner of his eye said he was not the dog his friendly voice said he was. I tapped my finger on his nose, in a playful sort of way, of course. He growled.

The woman stuck her head in from the hall. “Mugsy. Be kind to strangers.”

He heeled.

“Well,” I stood. “I guess we’ll be going.” Before I made it to the front door I turned and faced the woman and, thinking quickly, asked, “You do have the dog registered with the landlord, ma’am?”

She laughed, “Yes, of course. Would you like to see the papers?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. But would you tell me, are you planning to take him out anywhere this evening?”

The woman shook her head and looked somewhat confused, as if the question had taken her by surprise. Candy appeared a little puzzled as well, though she did well to hide it.

“Why do you ask?” the woman appeared nervous.

“It’s just that some folks have complained lately about strange dogs in the neighborhood, and I just wanted to warn you in case some of them may confront you.” It was the best lie I could think of for the moment.

“Oh, well, don’t you worry about us,” the woman said. “We can handle ourselves just fine.”

“I’m sure you can, ma’am,” I said with a polite smile and a half bow. “We’ll be out of your hair then.”

Candy and I made our exit quickly, and as we hit the street she got up the nerve to ask, “What was that about? Is he a bad dog?”

---

---

The stakeout was a huge success. And Candy was a great sport. What young lady will give up a night out on the town to watch a house for hours in the dark?

It wasn't long before the old woman left the house. Alone. Candy wondered if we should follow. "No," I said. "She's not the target." An hour or so later, she returned. Just after midnight, the front door open again and Mugsy made his exit. He was alone. He walked a block up the street and over three. We followed, carefully keeping our distance.

He turned and went another six blocks before entering an abandoned warehouse in the seedy side of town. The night was quiet and the moon was still.

I knew I was taking Candy into the heart of danger, but now was not the time to abandon mission. The boss man would never forgive me if something happened to his little girl, and I couldn’t say that I’d blame him. I could leave her alone. I chose to keep her close instead. We went inside.

The warehouse was huge. Dark. And empty. Except for Mugsy and Candy and me. Or so I thought until I heard a voice.

“Did you bring the goods?”

It was the gravelly voice of Big Iron Joe. What was he doing here?

I crept closer with Candy at my sleeve. In the shadows of the darkest corner of the warehouse, I saw two silhouettes – one big and one small. They were talking, saying things Candy ought not to hear.

“I got all the goods you need.”

I wondered what goods this little mutt Mugsy could have carried from his home. I noticed no bags or carrying devices. How did he get these goods across town?

“Got the money?” That Mugsy. He looked like a lover of money.

Something hit the floor between them and slid to Mugsy’s feet. He sniffed it as if testing a pair of dirty shoes. In the dark it appeared to be a small bag. Then, and I know my eyes didn’t fail me, even in the darkest of the darkest corner of hell I’d have known what I saw. The small figure turned and squatted. Right there on the warehouse floor, Mugsy dropped a turd so long it curled like a snake into an immodest pile.

The larger figure slowly moved toward Mugsy, who took the bag in his teeth and dragged it away from the excrement. Big Iron Joe knelt, scooped up the poop, and dropped it into a pouch he had slung over his shoulder. And without a word he retreated into the darkness behind him and left through a door of the warehouse.

Mugsy was busy pushing and pulling his bag. I could have had him if I’d have wanted him. But I could think of no reason why I should. Big Iron Joe had his chance. He could have done it himself right there in the warehouse, in the dark, with no witnesses. Had he not hired me to do a job, he’d have had Mugsy all to himself. Why did he pick me?

As I pondered these questions, Mugsy dragged his bag across the warehouse. And when he had disappeared into the night with his treasure, I took Candy by the hand and cradled her till the sun woke us.

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