Dog People

Dog People

By Damon Nomad

          Shamus pumped his arms as he power-walked along Chestnut Street on the way back to his home. Sweat poured down his face and his eyeglasses fogged up. The sun has set, but September in New Orleans is hot and steamy, even after sunset. He glanced toward his left at one of the grand homes on this stretch between Sixth and Eighth streets.
          YELP! YELP!
          Shamus jumped back and stared at a dark brown dog leashed to a brick column that supported a black wrought iron gate. "Sorry boy." The dog appeared to be okay and friendly. But, he didn't want to try and pet it; he wasn't much of a dog person.
          The gate swung open and a man charged out of the manicured garden. "What you do to my dog?"
          The man looked vaguely familiar. Maybe early fifties with slicked back, black and gray styled hair. Shamus thought he looked like a banker for some reason. He was wearing an expensive athletic suit but there was not a drop of sweat on him. "Sorry, I must've stepped on his tail. It was an accident." He held out his hand. "I'm Shamus."
          The man sneered. "I'm not shaking your sweaty hand." He crouched down and petted the dog. "You okay Max?" He looked up at Shamus with hazel eyes that burned with anger. "Get out of here you fat-faced punk."
          Shamus headed down the sidewalk. I hate dog people. He had forgotten about the encounter by the time he got to the intersection with Louisiana Avenue. He turned left, the entrance to his condominium was just three doors down. He glanced back at the corner just as he got to the outside gate. He was pretty sure the same man was standing on the corner with his dog on a leash. Did he follow me? Shamus walked through the gate towards the door of his building. He avoided looking to see if the guy was still following him. There was something familiar about him and the dog as well.
          He went inside and turned on the lights. The den was hot and stuffy even with several windows open and air breezing in through the screens. He knew that letting the hot air in from outside didn't help much, but he couldn't afford to keep the AC on all the time. "Hi, Biscuit." His gray tabby lazily looked his way with an audible purr. Biscuit was in one of his favorite spots, the wide window sill of the large picture window in the den. Shamus went to the fridge and got a cold beer and came back to the den. He looked out the picture window along the sidewalk up to the corner. The man was nowhere to be seen. He closed the windows and turned on the AC unit in the side window and headed for the bathroom. "That will cool it down Biscuit."
          Shamus stared in the mirror after his shower as he wiped away the condensation. He had always parted his wavy brown hair down the middle. Am I too old for this look? He was thirty-two but most people took him for much younger. He got dressed and headed to the kitchen. He boiled some water for pasta and started a saucepan with tomato sauce and prawns. He sat down at the small table in the den with another beer and a plate of spaghetti. Biscuit was nibbling away at his bowl in the corner. Shamus tapped on the remote and the television local news was on. "A verdict of not guilty came back today in the murder trial of the suspect accused of killing an elementary school teacher." Shamus hit the mute and glanced at the TV. "That's him!" It was the man with the dog. Shamus realized where he had seen him, the caption on the screen had his name. Magnus Broussard Criminal Defense Attorney. He had billboards and bench advertisements all over town. They had his picture with the dog sitting at his feet. He went to bed early after cleaning up the kitchen.
          Shamus bolted out of bed at the sound of breaking glass. The orange numerals on the alarm clock showed that it was three thirty-two in the morning. Biscuit was sitting up on the bed with his ears straight up. "You stay here." Shamus grabbed a baseball bat from the corner as he crept down the hall toward the den. The window of the front door was broken out, but the door was still locked. He looked out the window frame onto the street. Someone was leaning against the outside gate. He couldn't make out the man's face, but he was wearing an orange shirt and a white hat. He lit a cigar, tipped his hat, and casually walked down the sidewalk.
          ***
          The landlord had the glass replaced a few days later and Shamus tried to force the incident out of his mind. By the end of the week, he had convinced himself it must have been a bizarre coincidence that it happened the same night as his encounter with Magnus Broussard. The guy was taller and thinner than Broussard. He probably hit the wrong house, maybe a jealous husband or someone trying to collect a debt.
          It was getting dark when Shamus got off the bus at the corner on Friday. He was working late to meet a deadline on a big project. What the heck? The front door was ajar and the lights were on. His pulse raced as he pushed the door open. "Biscuit, kitty, kitty." Biscuit wasn't in any of his favorite spots. Shamus realized he smelt cigar smoke just as he noticed a man sitting in the chair in the corner of the den. "Who are you? What you want? Where's my cat?"
          The man was wearing a short-sleeved orange Hawaiin shirt and a white beanie hat and was smoking a short fat cigar. He had a skull and crossed bones tattooed on his right forearm. "Ya ask lots of questions Shamus." His speech was drawn out in a strong Cajun accent. He sneered. "Who I am ain't your business. I want for nothin and I'll tell you about your kitty in a bit." He tapped some of his cigar ash on the floor. "You understand retribution, boy?"
          Shamus shrugged. "What? I don't understand."
          "Mr. Broussard believes in retribution. Old Testament style. Eye for an eye." He took out a large folding knife from his pocket and opened it. He waved it in the air. "A tail for a tail." He put the knife away and headed for the door. "Biscuit will be back." He snorted, "Not sure if he will be in one piece." He glanced back from the doorway, "But, I'm more of a dog person, to be honest."
          ***
          Detective Anderson sighed loudly as he closed his notebook. He leaned back in his seat and stretched his legs out under his desk. "This is about someone taking your cat? I thought you said it was a kidnapping."
          Shamus shrugged and avoided looking the older man in the eyes. "I wasn't sure what to call it. He broke into my house."
          Anderson frowned. "You say that Magnus Broussard is behind this, the criminal defense attorney. What kind of beef does he have with you?"
          Shamus explained the encounter with Magnus and his dog. "I know it sounds crazy. But that's the truth. He followed me to my house. Must be something you can do."
          "Well, Broussard is a strange character. I'll let you look at some mugshots and let's see what we got."
          Shamus tapped on the computer screen. "That's him."
          Detective Anderson walked over to the workstation where Shamus had been reviewing pictures. "That took a while." He jotted down a number. "Have a seat at my desk."
          Shamus sat down in the chair beside Anderson's desk as the detective typed away at his computer. Anderson sighed loudly. "Samael Romero. He's got a sheet going back twenty-five years. This is a bad dude, manslaughter, aggravated assaults, B and E. Been out on parole for six months and Magnus Broussard has represented him." He clicked the computer mouse a few times. "There's already a BOLO out for him. He missed his last parole check in and he's not living where he told his parole officer. Sorry, nothing more I can do. Here's my card. Call me if he contacts you."
          ***
          Detective Anderson saw Shamus coming towards his desk a few days later. "What's wrong? Looks like your best friend just died."
          Shamus dropped a box on the detective's desk. "Biscuit is my best friend."
          "Your dead cat's in this box?"
          "His tail. Well, it looks like his tail."
          The detective winced as he opened the box. "No blood. You sure it's real?"
          "A vet said it's real. What are you going to do now?"
          Anderson pushed the box toward Shamus. "Take this with you. Like I said there's a BOLO on Romero and you got no evidence of any real connection with Broussard. Sorry, I've got lots of cases. Ones where people are the victims. Sorry."
          Shamus picked up the box and headed for the elevator. He stared at his reflection in the mirror in the corridor. Been bullied my whole life and never do anything. He gripped the box tightly as a tear rolled down his cheek. Biscuit's going to die because I'm a coward.
          ***
          Nearly a week later, Detective Anderson responded to a homicide. A police sergeant gestured down an alley. "The body is there. CSU is working the scene. A shot to the head and two to the chest."
          "I heard you've got the shooter. How?"
          "Our patrol car was right down the street. We heard the shots, but there were no witnesses. Shooter's in the cruiser. He hasn't said a word. Guess he's waiting for his lawyer."
          Anderson walked down the alley and studied the body for a few moments while the crime scene unit took pictures. He walked back out to the police car and opened the rear door. "Okay, Shamus what happened? How did you end up shooting Romero?"
          Shamus calmly looked up at Anderson. "Self-defense, he was following me down the alley. Pulled that knife of his on me. Pretty sure it's in his right hand."
          Anderson paused for a moment. "Interesting that you know which hand the knife was in." He pointed at Shamus. "What were you doing on this side of town? In an alley at night? With a gun?"
          Shamus smirked. "Just out for a walk." He paused for a moment. "Got the gun because of everything going on."
          The sergeant rushed over to the cruiser. "Detective, a neighbor heard a call for help from Magnus Broussard's house and a unit responded there about an hour ago. Broussard says a masked man broke into his home, blindfolded him, and tied him up early this morning. Dispatch wants you to respond." The sergeant smirked. "Broussard says the masked man kidnapped his dog."
          Anderson focused a suspicious glare on Shamus. "You know anything about this?"
          Shamus shrugged. "Nope. But I have a feeling that Max found a better home in the countryside. Maybe a family with some children. Just a premonition."
          Anderson nodded slowly. "That's a very specific feeling." His lips curled into the hint of a smile. "You get your cat back?"
          "He showed up at the door a day or two ago. Took him to the vet, he will be okay with that stub of a tail." Shamus slumped back. "I'd like to call a lawyer and get back home to Biscuit."
          Anderson closed the door of the patrol car and gestured at the sergeant. "Take him downtown for a formal interview. I'm guessing he's sticking with self-defense." Anderson muttered as he walked back toward his car, "Not sure who is crazier, dog people or cat people."