Steve Dublanica's Blog, page 27

Sin Saves

(Another Byrne story I wrote a while back. Experimenting with the genre. Enjoy!)

It was two o'clock in the afternoon when I heard the shots ring out.

If you've ever spent time around firearms, the sound of gunfire is unmistakable. Those who haven't often mistake it for firecrackers going off or a car backfiring. It's not a boom so much as it is a loud pop. When a gun goes bang it's not the cartridge lighting up inside the gun that makes the sound, it's the release of gas and pressure as the bullet leaves the barrel. Popping a champagne cork is the most benign analogy I can think off.

When the first round went off I rolled onto the floor of my office and yanked my gun out it's holster. I've pissed off a lot of people over the years and my first thought was that one of them was looking for a little payback. Then, after a few seconds of panting and pointing my gun at the door, I realized the shots were coming from outside. Crawling to my window I peeked above the sill and saw what was happening: two men wearing black ski masks were standing in front of the bank across the street and blasting away at a police cruiser. One of the men had a revolver and the other had a shotgun. The man with the revolver was roughly tugging on a red-haired girl's arm and yelling something I couldn't understand. The police car was right below my window and I could see the cop trying to reload his weapon. He was bleeding from his side. Not good.

But once a cop, always a cop. So I burst out of my office and headed for the stairs. You can tell I'm not a deep thinker.

"What the hell's going on?" said Ron, the rotund account whose office was next to mine.

"Get down on the floor, Ron!" I yelled.

"Now see, here…" Ron said, blocking the stairs. Then his eyes widened when he saw the gun in my hand.

I pushed Ron to the floor, no mean feat since he's three hundred pounds, and then bounded down the stairs. I scrabbled out the main door in a crouch and moved towards the police cruiser. In the distance sirens were wailing. The cavalry was coming. But they might not get here fast enough.

Another shotgun blast rocked the cruiser, slapping fragments of glass and metal against my face. The cop had lost consciousness, his pistol in slide lock and impotent in his hand. The guy with the shotgun racked the action and advanced towards the car. He was going to finish the cop off. That was dumb. Him and his buddy should have made a run for it.

I stood up and the man with the shotgun noticed me. A million things flew though my mind. Where would the bullets go if my shots failed to connect? Where were the bystanders? What was the guy with the revolver going to do? Then I realized the hard truth. I couldn't miss.

By the time the bank robber had traversed his gun towards me I had his chest squarely in my pistol's front sight. Training kicked in and I fired twice, sending two forty-five caliber hollow point bullets traveling nine hundred feet a second into the man's thoracic cavity.

The man rocked backwards but didn't fall. Sometimes bad guys don't oblige you by dropping dead. It isn't like the movies. So I figured the guy was on speed or wearing body armor and put a bullet into his brain case, his head snapping back as a burst of pink mist jetted from his skull.

As I watched his body crumple to the ground I realized there was another threat to my left so I dodged right. Good thing I did. The first bullet missed but the second hit my left shoulder. It fucking hurt – and I'm a southpaw shooter.

I transferred my gun to my right hand and reacquired the guy with the revolver in my sights. But I couldn't fire. He was holding the red-haired girl in front of him like a shield.

"Give it up," I yelled in my best cop voice. "Throw your weapon down! Throw your weapon down!" Of course, this guy wasn't the type to follow directions and sent two more shots towards my vicinity. But it's hard to shoot when manhandling a hostage so the bullets went wide. I moved in closer. I would have liked to use a two handed grip on my gun, I'm more accurate that way, but my left arm was hanging loosely at my side. But it's a poor workman who blames his tools.

"I'll kill this bitch," the bank robber screamed. "Put your gun down or I'll waste her." Now things were getting interesting.

I wasn't going to put down my gun. In the background I could hear footsteps fast approaching. I only hoped the cops recognized me and didn't shoot me by sphincter puckering mistake. Personally, I didn't like my odds.

"Put the gun down!" another voice, probably a cop, shouted. Was he talking to me? Then the red-haired girl bit the bank robber's gun arm. Instinctively the man grabbed the woman by her lustrous red hair and yanked hard. Then I saw one of the strangest things I've ever seen – the lady's hair came clean off.

The bank robber stared at the wig dangling from his hand as the woman ran away. He was wide open so I fired three times. The man fell screaming. Then, as if a puppeteer had cut the strings, I fell to the ground. My first thought was a cop behind me had put one in my back. I got dizzy and a surge of vomit surged up my throat but I fought it down. The next thing I knew I was being rolled onto my back, cuffed and thrown in the back of a police car. A homeless drunk had probably been the backseat's previous occupant so, when that sour mix of cheap booze and dirty sweat hit my nostrils, I puked. Great, the cops are going to love that. Then things got fuzzy.

When my mind cleared I was sitting in the back of an ambulance. The handcuffs had come off and a young paramedic was wrapping a bandage around my arm.

"Looks like it went though and through," the medic said. "Probably just tissue damage. We'll have the surgeon take a look, but I think with rest and a little physical therapy you'll be fine." I hoped my health insurance was paid up.

"Hey there Byrne," a voice boomed. "How ya doing?" It was the town's chief of police.

Chief Colluci was about my age and thirty pounds heavier than me. And even though we attended parochial school together a lifetime ago, he was a world-class hard ass. He could make my life difficult if he wanted to. Private investigators like myself make him nervous.

"How's your guy?" I said.

"Becker got two in the chest. He got airlifted out and's already in surgery. He'll probably make it."

"Good," I said, befuddled that I didn't hear a helicopter landing in my immediate vicinity. It could have been because of the adrenaline, but I'd put my money on the morphine the medic shot into my arm. That stuff whacks you out.

"You're lucky my men recognized you," Colluci said. "One of them almost popped you."

"Glad I showed up to that PBA barbeque. "

Colluci snorted. "Well, you killed the first guy. We're still looking for pieces of his skull."

"And the other guy?"

"You missed two shots, we dug the slugs out of the bank's wall." Then the chief's face broke into a wide grain. "But your last bullet hit him in the balls. He won't be reproducing anytime soon."

"I was never good shooting with my right," I said. "How's the woman?"

"Packed full of drugs and on the way to the hospital," Colluci said. "She was quite the wreck.'

"Glad she's fine."

"I'm glad she was wearing a wig, Fucking weirdest thing I ever saw."

"Vanity saved her ass," I said. "What would Sister Mary Alice have made of that?"

"Sometimes sin saves," Colluci, said, shrugging. "Now you've got a date with the doc. Afterwards you'll be talking to a lot of people – me, the FBI, the DA."

"Am I gonna get fucked for this?" I said.

"Probably not. But we'll be hanging onto your gun for a while."

"That's okay. I have another."

Colluci looked at the medic and told him to take off. But, just before the ambulance's doors slammed shut, I heard the chief say in his thick New Jersey accent, "A fucking wig. Unfuckingbeliebable."

Rescue

(I wrote this for giggles a while back. Not a very serious work, but I hope you enjoy it.)

In my twenty years as both a cop and private investigator I've been asked to find a lot of things in New Jersey: murderers, rapists, thieves, drugs, stolen cars, putrefying body parts in the Meadowlands, one serial killer, runaway children, cheating spouses, lost loves, dead-beat dads, insurance fraudsters and the newly litigated ducking subpoenas. But in all that time no one ever asked me to find a dog.

"You're kidding, right?" I asked the elderly woman sitting across from me.

"That's what the police said," Mrs. Bogush said. "They think I'm a crazy."

From where I was sitting Mrs. Bogush didn't look like a candidate for psychiatric care. Clear eyed and sober, she was in her late sixties and wearing the kind of pantsuit older woman wear when they've taken themselves off the market. Her hair was dyed red and the pleasantly plump face that stared back at me was remarkably smooth. She looked like a kindly grandmother who'd spoil somebody's kid rotten.

"Finding animals isn't my line of work Mrs. Bogush."

"You help people find things," she said. "Don't you Mr. Byrne?"

""Yeah," I said. "Wives messing around on their husbands. Cars that need repossessing, that kind of stuff."

"You think I'm crazy too."

"No ma'am. I just think you're in the wrong place."

Mrs. Bogush opened her large red purse; dug out a flat pack of newly minted one hundred dollars bills and threw then on my desk.

"That's five thousand dollars Mr. Byrne," she said. "Still think I'm in the wrong place?"

I looked at the money and let out a low whistle. Five large would pay my rent for months, send me to Hawaii or buy that macked out stereo system I was lusting after. Forget about what you read in all those private eye novels. We aren't idealistic knights' errant on quixotic quests to right the world's wrongs. We're in it for the money.

"You've got my attention Mrs. Bogush," I said. "But five thousand's a lot to find a dog."

"He's not just a dog Mr. Byrne," Mrs. Bogush said. "Muffles was at my side when my husband died, when I recovered from breast cancer and all my friends started moving away. He's been the one constant in my life for eight years. The police have other things to do – but you can look for him full time."

I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out a legal pad and a pen. "So the dog's name is Muffles?"

"You'll take the case?" Mrs. Bogush said, her face brightening.

"Yes, ma'am."

"I thought money would convince you."

"You seem to know how people operate."

"Ha," she said. "I was a nurse for forty-five years Mr. Byrne. I'm under no illusions about what motivates people – sex, money and the fear of death."

I let the fear of death thing slide and picked up my pen. "So what kind of dog is Muffles?"

"He's a Japanese Chin."

"Never heard of that breed."

"They're a very rare and ancient breed," she said. "Chinese emperors kept them as pets a thousand years ago."

"Got a picture?"

Mrs. Bogush reached into her cavernous purse and produced a photo. The small dog that stared back at me had black and white fur, a spaniel's body, large brown eyes and a pug nose.

"Looks like a Pekinese," I said.

"He looks nothing like a Pekinese," Mrs. Bogush said, with a trace of snobbery. You can get one of those anywhere. Chins are very expensive. I paid three thousand dollars for Muffles." Muffles didn't look like three thousand dollars worth of anything but I kept that to myself.

"Tell me about when he disappeared," I said.

"It was the day before yesterday," Mrs. Bogush said. "I had just left the dog park…"

"Where's that?"

"In Lyndhurst. In the park near the river."

"Okay," I said, scribbling on my pad. "Go on."

"So I went to the Quik-Mart on Ridge Road to buy some milk. I usually take Muffles with me everywhere but that man who runs the store won't let me bring him inside. So I left him in the car…" Tears started eroding tributaries in Mrs. Bogush's make up and her body started to shudder.

"If I hadn't left him in the car," she said. "If I hadn't left my poor baby in the car…"

I handed Mrs. Bogush the box Kleenex I kept on hand for moments like these. Usually people cried in my office because I had confirmed their lovers were boinking everybody but them. Today was a first.

"So went you went to your car and the dog was gone," I said.

"Some one popped the lock and took him," Mrs. Bogush sobbed. "I can't bear to think how scared Muffles was."

"No witnesses?"

"None."

"What did the police say?" I asked.

"They said they'd look into it but that'll take forever."

"They're often very busy."

"You know what the super in my building told me?" Mrs. Bogush said. "He told me small dogs are used to whip the bigger ones into a frenzy at dog fights. I don't have time for the police to figure it out! Oh my god. The thought of Muffles dying in some pit bulls mouth…"

Mrs. Bogush was sobbing hard now. I sat back in my chair and waited for the storm to pass. When it did I said, "I can see how much you love that dog Mrs. Bogush. I'll….

"Millie," she interrupted. "Call me Millie."

"I'll do my best to find him, Millie."

=================================================================

After Mrs. Bogush left I took two grand out of her stack of cash and put the rest in the office safe. Then I grabbed my cell phone, keys, and gun and went to get my car.

My office was in Haverford that year; above a music store and across the street from a Dunkin Donuts. If you want to lose your hearing and get high cholesterol at the same time I'd highly recommend the location. Walking into Dunkin I ordered a regular coffee and a Boston Cream. I didn't need the doughnut. I just wanted to piss my internist off.

After I paid up I flicked open the folding knife I always keep in my pocket and poked a hole into my cup's plastic top. As I did so, two young mothers with obnoxiously oversized baby carriages stared at me wide eyed. I wondered what their reaction would be if they saw my gun. Probably scare them out of their tight fitting yoga pants. Then again, that wouldn't have been so bad.

Washing down the sugary bolus with a swig of coffee, I climbed into my Chevy and drove over to the Quik Mart in Lyndhurst. When I got there the stern looking Indian guy behind the counter wasn't too accommodating. "I no see anything," he said, looking at my Dunkin Donuts coffee with naked hostility. "I tell that lady she can't bring dog into store. Not my fault lady get dog stolen."

"You're all heart, Charig," I replied.

"How you know my name?"

"It's on your name tag," I said. The clerk was like all convenience store clerks in New Jersey – no sense of customer service.

"You buy something or what?" he said.

"Well, I'm not going to buy coffee."

"Very funny."

"Listen," I said. "You have security cameras. I want to look at the tapes of the day in question."

"I no show them to you."

I produced a fifty and placed it on the counter. "Maybe I do feel like buying something after all."

The clerk snapped up the bill and put in his pocket before I could blink. "This way," he said.

Soon I was huddled over a video monitor in a small room filled with posters of Bollywood film stars and a mouse munching on the dried rivulets of rancid Coke syrup that had leaked onto floor. The store's surveillance system was only set up to take a picture every two seconds but the image quality was good. When I got to the time frame of the theft I watched as Millie walked into the store to run her errands. But as she was comparing the price of regular milk over skim, the outside camera showed a thin Latino man cracking open her car's passenger door with a jimmy stick and grabbing Muffles. The dog wasn't much of a fighter and the man ducked into an old silver Buick with rusted out wheel wheels and drove away. From the camera angle I couldn't see the plates.

"You got another view? One where I can see the plate number?" I asked

"I want two hundred," the clerk said, grinning avariciously. "Two hundred more."

"What I gave you was plenty."

"Two hundred," the clerk repeated, his eyes looking like hard brown buttons.

I grabbed the clerk by his shirt and lifted him clean off his feet. "You are going to show me that video," I said slowly. "And you're going to take my fifty and like it. If you don't I'll tell the board of health about the colony of mice you've got back here."

"Okay mister," the clerk said, gasping. "Okay boss. Whatever you say. You the boss."

I set the clerk down. After he caught his breath he spooled up footage from another camera.

"There," I said. "Freeze it there."

The picture in the monitor showed the dognapper's car going out of the lot but a pedestrian was blocking the view so I could only get a partial plate: New Jersey UTX something, something.

"Thanks a lot, Charig," I said, walking out of the fetid back office. "And don't worry, I won't be back. I'm sure your coffee sucks."

Getting into my car I fired up my laptop and surfed over to an Internet site that only licensed PI's can access for a hefty annual fee. After a few clicks I narrowed the DMV's record of silver Buicks with the partial I got down to three people. After a little more probing I discovered one of the cars was registered to a Teresa Alvarez in Passaic – a tough urban burg just a few miles away. Since the other two car owners lived near Philly I figured I had my man. Or woman as it were.

When I drove to Passaic I discovered Teresa Alvarez lived in a dilapidated frame house in the bad section of town. Probably built in the early 1900's, the house's mansard roof was missing half of its shingles, the cheap aluminum siding was streaked with rust and the lopsided front porch was breaking the laws of physics just by standing up. Thin curtains in window frames that hadn't see paint since the Carter Administration flopped lazily in the spring breeze and the front lawn had been replaced by a mat of concrete puddled with a gas station's worth of oil anti-freeze.

I parked my car down the street and opened the trunk of my car to don a disguise. When you tell people you're a private eye they usually slam the door on your foot so a measure of deception is usually called for. Shucking my leather jacket I took a blue blazer out of the trunk and rummaged though the assortment of nametags I kept in a shoebox. When I found the right one I attached it to the blazer, grabbed a clipboard and walked to Ms. Alvarez's front door.

The woman who answered the doorbell was a thin Latina woman in her seventies. Wearing a simple housedress and slippers, she had an apron around her waist and a gold chain with a cross around her neck. I could smell something with onions cooking inside.

"Mrs. Teresa Alvarez?"

"Yes?" she said, looking at me suspiciously.

"My name's Bob McAllister," I said pointing to my nametag. "I'm with New Ministries Life Church. I understand you own an old Buick?"

"Yes."

"Well my church is taking old cars people don't want and selling them to raise money for our missionary efforts in Africa."

"Oh! That's good work," she said in broken English. "The Lord's work. I go to church every Sunday."

'That's wonderful Mrs. Alvarez. Would you like to donate your car? I'll give you a receipt so you claim a deduction on your taxes."

'Be nice, yes. But my grandson need the car. He works."

"He's lucky to have such a nice grandmother," I said. "Is he good with the Lord?"

"He young," Mrs. Alvarez said, shrugging. "Only old people worry about God."

"What his name? I'll put him on my prayer list and send him a bible."

"Oh wonderful," she said. "His name is Cornelio."

"Is his last name Alvarez too? Want to make sure the Lord get's the right name."

"Santiago. Cornelio Santiago. He's my girl's boy. His father here no more."

"What does Cornelio do for living?" I asked.

"He works with animals. Helps sick dogs."

"Thank you Mrs. Alvarez. I'll keep Cornelio in my prayers."

When I got back to my car I ditched the blazer, put on a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses, and untucked my shirt to cover up my gun. Then I walked into a taqueira down the street to get some lunch. I couldn't stay on the street because someone would look at my white ass, think I was a cop and telegraph the information all over the neighborhood. So I grabbed a table by the window and washed down three pork tamales with two bottles of Carta Blanca that the place didn't have a liquor license to sell. But judging from the hard stares I was getting from the waitress I might be fingered as a cop before dessert. I didn't have much time.

I got lucky, While lingering over my second cup of café tasso, the brown Buick pulled onto Mrs. Alvarez's concrete lawn and the young man I saw on the Quik-Mart tape got out holding a small cage with a dog in it. The dog was black and white but it wasn't Muffles. It looked more like a Boston terrier. Paying the bill I walked out of the taqueira got into my car and drove away. The moment Cornelio's abuelita told him about my visit he'd be looking for me. And from the gang tats I saw on his arms I didn't want to be around when he did. So I decided to do what any self-respecting white dude does when he needs to infiltrate the Latino community – hire a Spanish guy.

======================================================================

Leaving Passaic behind me I headed to meet my Latin connection at the Riverside Mall in Hackensack – the place where rich New Jerseyites go to shop. Ignacio Marquez was an ex-cop who lived in my town. Just starting on the Newark P.D. as I was gently being shown the door, I worked with him enough to know he was a good kid and a fine officer. But when the recession forced Newark's mayor to lay off hundreds of cops, Ignacio got the boot. Now he was working as a store detective at the mall. Not a lateral career move.

"So how's busting crime in one of the ritziest malls in Jersey?" I said as we sipped coffee in a cafe next to Tiffany's.

"Loss prevention specialist," Ignacio said, correcting me. "If you like busting kleptomaniac rich chicks it's a great gig."

"That's the wealthy for you," I said. "Always wanting a little more. But I've got some honest work for you. Need you to follow one of your countrymen."

"What do you mean by countrymen?" Ignacio said. "I'm from the Dominican Republic."

"You people are all the same. What's the difference?"

Ignacio frowned at me without malice. He was a skinny kid with the face of an ascetic saint and the frame of a featherweight boxer. The sum of a very black Cuban father and very white Dominican mother, he could pass for black, Latino, Italian or Arab. Ignacio would've been a natural for undercover work.

"Very funny blanquito," he said, stroking the end of his pencil thin mustache. "You were always very funny."

I pulled papers and photos out of my jacket and laid them on the table. "I need you to follow this guy. He's from Mexico if that matters."

"What's his deal?'

"Cornelio Santiago," I said. "Twenty-eight years old, member of the Latin Kings, two stints at Eastern State for drug dealing and post grad work at Essex County for stealing cars. Suspected in two murders, no indictments."

"Guy's an asshole," Ignacio said, studying Cornelio's picture.

"And I thought you people stuck together."

Ignacio made a face. "What do you need and how much will it pay?" I told him.

"You're shitting me," Ignacio said. "You're gonna pay me a thousand bucks to help you find a dog?"

"The lady wants him back sooner than later. And if Cornelio's into what I think he's into Muffles isn't long for this world. Might be dead already."

"You white people are crazy motherfuckers," Ignacio said, shaking his head.

"I need you on this right now," I said. "Think you can talk your boss into giving you some sick time?"

"For a grand I've got gonorrhea. I'll be in Passaic in two hours."

As we shook hands a pair of athletic looking older women wearing high heels and short skirts walked into the café loaded down with bags from Prada, Hermes and Tiffany's. Ignacio and I immediately noticed they had very fine derrieres. Hey, we used to be cops. When one of the women gave Ignacio a covert glance I chuckled.

"Sure you want to leave this all behind?" I asked, pointing to the ladies.

"Gringa cougars," Ignacio said, smiling. "They marry rich but all end up banging the gardener."

With my gut digesting three pork tamales stewing in beer and coffee I took an antacid the moment I got home and took a nap. When I woke up two hours later I had seven voice mails on my cell. They were all from Millie. I decided to ignore her. If she found out her worst fears might be true she'd have a coronary.

The next time my phone range it was Ignacio on the line. He told me that Cornelio had loaded three small dogs into his Buick and drove to an abandoned industrial area by the Passaic River.

"He went into one of the warehouses. So I did my barracho routine and said I was looking for a dogfight. The dipshits told me to be there at two in the morning and bring money."

"You get a look inside?"

"Not much of a place, man," Ignacio said. "But I got the layout down."

"Great," I said, ""See? They don't expect a drunken Spaniard to be a cop."

"Dominican, bro. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Where are you now?" I asked.

"I'm on the fourth floor in the warehouse on the northwest corner, doing the private eye thing." I looked at my watch. It was six o'clock.

"You want to help me with this?" I asked.

"Go up against some dog fighting gangbangers?" Ignacio said. "You serious?"

"Another two thousand in it for you."

"Sold."

After telling Ignacio I'd join him at eleven I hung up and went into my gun safe to assemble all the tools the evening's festivities might require. At nine I changed into black pants, black sweater, black shoes and threw my duffel bag of goodies into the trunk of my car. All this for a dog. Jesus Christ.

=================================================================

Now you just don't go up against gangbangers without taking precautions. The young ones were, by and large, stupid. But their leaders could be very, very smart. I didn't want this little escapade circling back on me so I drove to Newark Airport, parked my car in the long-term parking lot and promptly stole another. Nothing fancy, just a beat-up old Honda. Stealing a car isn't the most ethical thing sure, but gang guys often had cops in their pocket that could run a DMV check faster then I could. So when I got off Turnpike near the Meadowlands I pulled under an abandoned train trestle and switched the stolen car's plates with ones from a guy who'd never need them again. I didn't want the innocent Honda owner getting clipped either.

At eleven o'clock I reached Passaic and parked behind the building Ignacio was hiding in. The wind coming off the river was cold and the hulking warehouse was as desolate and dark as the soul of the serial killer I once hunted. Taking a deep breath I got my duffel bag out of the car and went inside. Using my flashlight sparingly I made my way up the rusted out stairs and found Ignacio lying on a sleeping bag, peering at the building on the other side of the cratered parking lot with a high power night scope.

"Where the hell did you get that thing?" I asked. "Those scopes cost a fortune."

"Around," Ignacio said, shrugging.

"So where'd you park your car?"

"Car?" Ignacio said. "Think I'm gonna bring my fine ride here? I took a taxi bro."

"Can't blame you. So what's going on with our friends?"

"Not much. A few guys coming and going. I don't think we'll see any action for a while."

As the hours ticked by Ignacio and I took turns looking though the scope, drinking coffee from his thermos and studying the target building's floor plan. "Like I said, not much too it," Ignacio said as we looked at the map he had drawn. "They're in the basement, a big empty space with a large cage in the center."

"Exits? Entrances?" I asked.

"There's only one way in and one way out."

"Good. That'll make things easier."

"We can't be killing people, man."

"Don't worry Ignacio," I said. "I have a plan."

"What? Ask them to give up?"

"Shock and awe, amigo. Shock and awe."

I opened up my duffel bag and laid its contents on the floor. Two shotguns, three stun grenades and several boxes of Hornet's Nest non-lethal shotgun shells.

"Where the hell did you get stun grenades?" Ignacio said.

"Around," I replied, grinning.

"Dios mio," Ignacio said. "I was right. You white people are crazy."

The plan was simple which was good because the complicated ones always go wrong. We'd enter the basement, toss in the grenades and force the pandilleros into compliance with our plastic ammunition. If things got really hairy Ignacio and I both had semi-automatic pistols holstered on our belts.

For the next hour we crunched though our escape plan and waited. At one-thirty two SUV's pulled up next to the warehouse and several men got out carrying cases of beer. Then we saw four large dogs straining against chains being led into the basement. From our vantage point they looked like Rottweilers. I felt my stomach tighten as my adrenal glands kicked into overdrive. After a few minutes several more cars pulled into the lot. As the passengers got out they engaged in all that macho posturing these thugs are so fond of – flashing gang signs and slapping each other on the back. There were twenty of them in all.

"Time to go," I said, handing Ignacio one of the shotguns.

"I hope you're right about this," he said.

"Beats shaking down shoplifters for blowjobs don't it?"

"Aw man," Ignacio said. "You've got me all figured out."

When we were sure that everybody had shown up, Ignacio and I donned ski masks, got into the stolen Honda and crept up to the basement door with the lights off. As we carefully approached the entrance we could hear the roar of callous men and barking dogs punching though the reggaton music blasting inside. Then we politely knocked.

The fat guy weighted down with gold chains who opened the door managed to say, "What the fuck!" before I blasted him in the chest. Hornet's Nest rounds are shotgun shells filled with twenty .308 caliber plastic pellets. They won't kill, but when they hit you with 100 pounds of foot pressure they hurt like a bitch. As the doorman fell down screaming I moved to the side of the door and Ignacio tossed two of the stun grenades inside. Designed to disorient people with bright light and a loud bang, I knew the concrete walls of the basement would amplify the effect. After they exploded I ran inside, aimed at the biggest cluster of men I could see and raked them with my shotgun until it was empty. The grenades and ammunition produced the desired effect. Screaming and covering their ears, the gangbangers didn't know what hit them.

"Listen up assholes," I yelled with Ignacio translating behind me. "This is a bona-fide fucking hold up. Now I shot you with plastic pellets to get your attention. But my friend here has the real bullets. If he sees anybody reaching for a weapon you all die."

"You stupid fuck," a bodybuilder type covered in tattoos said as he shook the stars from his eyes. "You know who you're fucking with?"

"Yeah," I said. "I know exactly who I'm fucking with."

With Ignacio covering me I reloaded my shotgun and walked around the makeshift arena. A huge Rottweiler was whimpering in the corner of the chicken wire fight cage and bleeding from the right eye. He had gotten tagged by one of the pellets and the grenades had overwhelmed his acute hearing. I would've felt bad if I hadn't seen the carcass of a small dog in lying next to him. Its head had been ripped off and grey intestines lay in limp coils on the dirty cement floor. But the dog's bloodied fur was brown. It wasn't Muffles.

"Compadre," I said to Ignacio. "You good?"

"Si, amigo," he called out from behind me

"If they move," I said, keeping my eyes on dogfighters. "Kill them." Then I took a pillowcase out of my coat and threw it on the floor.

"Dipshits," I said. "Drop your wallets and all the bets into the bag."

"We ain't gonna," the bodybuilder said. "When this is over we're gonna find you and kill your whole fucking family." Getting the sense that muscleman wasn't going to play well with others I clubbed him in the head with the butt of my shotgun. Then, when he was sprawled on the floor, I pressed the blue steel muzzle into his left eye.

"Gonna be hard to find me when your blind culero," I said. The bodybuilder didn't make a sound.

"Are you still confused about who's in charge?" I said, twisting the muzzle.

"No man," he said carefully. "You're in charge."

The crowd of men passed around the pillowcase and tossed their wallets inside. When they finished threw the bag over to me.

"Now I have most of your IDs," I said. "So if any of you knuckleheads try and find me it'll be your families who'll die, not mine. I'll kill your wives, your children, grandparents, shit, I'll even kill your damn dogs."

I was lying of course, but my words caused the men to look stonily at the floor. Threatening peoples' families was their stock and trade. They didn't seem too thrilled it was being done to them.

Keeping my shotgun level I slowly walked backwards and when I reached Ignacio he advanced to keep all the thugs in his sights. Looking around I found a small cage next to the cases of beer. Muffles was in it. Pressed up against an equally terrified looking Boston terrier, he was shaking uncontrollably. But he was alive.

Grabbing a pair of leashes off the floor I hooked up Muffles and his cellmate and started backtracking to the exit. "And I'm going to steal your fucking dogs too," I called out. "Bleeding heart yuppies will pay through the nose to have them."

The gangbangers stayed silent as I took the dogs outside and put them in the car. Ignacio stayed behind because I knew the men we ripped off would start shooting the first chance they got. Using my folding knife, I sliced open the tires of all the cars in the lot and then got into the Honda. Tooting the horn once I watched as Ignacio carefully backed his way out. Then, just as I started the engine, he threw the last of the stun grenades into the basement and started running like hell.

"Vamanos!" he said, slamming his door shut. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Flooring the accelerator, I heard the Honda's tires rip through the broken asphalt as we rapidly egressed the area. In my rear view mirror I saw the gangbangers tumble out of the basement and start running to their cars. Discovering that wouldn't work a few of them started shooting. As the muzzle flashes pierced the darkness I instinctively ducked – but we were already well out of range and headed for the highway. I finally stopped shaking when we pulled into Newark Airport.

=================================================================

Three hours later Ignacio and I were sitting at my kitchen table counting our forcibly acquired loot. The Honda was back in the spot I stole it from, the dogs had been given a clean bill of health by a 24-hour vet and we had even swung by the supermarket to buy dog food. Having eaten two bowls apiece, Muffles and the Boston were fast asleep on my couch. It had been a busy night.

"There's fifteen thousand dollars here," Ignacio said, his hands waving over the stacks of bills arranged on the table. "Those guys are going to be pissed."

"If they are they'll have a hell of a time finding us," I replied. "Besides, we know where they live. They won't forget that."

"Especially since we went all commando on their ass."

"There's that."

"So what do you want to do with this money?" Ignacio said. "It's blood money. If we keep it karma's going to smack us upside the head."

"I was thinking about donating it to the ASPCA."

"Righteous," Ignacio said, a broad smile playing on his thin face. "Absolutely righteous."

"Who knows?" I said. "Maybe our friends will repent like Michael Vick."

"I wouldn't count on it."

After we drank a few beers to take the edge off, Ignacio pushed himself away from the table and put on his coat. "Thanks for the thrills, Byrne," he said. "Next time you need something you know where to find me."

"Have fun loss preventing at the mall."

"Adios, muchacho." And as soon as I closed the door after him I collapsed into my bed with my gunpowder soaked still clothes on.

The next morning I awoke to feel a tongue aggressively licking my face. For a brief moment I thought my ex-wife had paid me a visit for a little breakup sex. Then I remembered she lived in L.A.. So when I opened my eyes I wasn't surprised to see it was the Boston terrier covering me in slobber. The little bastards had joined me sometime in the middle of the night. I could feel Muffles under the covers at the foot of the bed, snoring louder than his size gave him any right too.

After a quick shower and shave I leashed the dogs and walked the seven blocks to my office. Along the way Muffles and his friend dumped a prodigious amount of feces on some poor slob's lawn. Since I didn't have a pooper-scooper I prayed no one saw us. The last thing I needed was a ticket for not curbing my dog. Then I remembered they weren't mine.

When reached my office the dogs leaped on to the leather couch I used for naps and started nipping and licking each others private parts. After I opened the windows to flush the smell of dog from my office, I dialed Millie.

"I'll be right over," she cried when I told her the good news. "Right over" was an understatement. She was knocking on my door in three minutes.

When I let her in Muffles bounded into her arms and Millie broke out crying. But this time her tears were of a better, cleaner quality. After about five minutes of licking, kissing and crying my supply of Kleenex was exhausted and the newly reunited pair plunked down onto the couch.

"Where did you ever find him?" Millie asked, her makeup a wreck.

"I really can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"Do me a favor Millie," I said. "If any one asks you, say you found Muffles at the pound."

"I'll say anything you want me to."

After I told Millie her dog had been checked out by a vet I said, "Sorry to say this, but finding Muffles turned out to be quit expensive. Most of your money is gone."

"Oh, it was worth it Mr. Byrne," she said, hugging Muffles. "You have no idea."

"So," I said, pointing to the Boston sitting next to her on the couch. "Want another dog?"

"Doesn't he have an owner?'

"He had no tags," I said. "And the vet couldn't find one of those ID microchips in him."

Millie shook her head and sighed. "Dogs like him require a lot of exercise Mr. Byrne. At my age he'd be too much for me to handle."

I felt something in my mind snap, like an unconscious decision had been made. "It was worth a shot Millie. But don't worry. I'll find a home for him."

"I'm sure you will. You're a nice man Mr. Byrne."

"Thanks Millie," I said. "Nice is not an appellation that's usually ascribed to me."

After Millie left I leashed up the Boston and headed to the pet supply store on Route Three. I purchased a new leash, a blanket with paws printed on it and two sets of food and water bowls. Then I went back to the 24-hour vet, got the dog all his shots and headed to the police station to get him licensed.

"So what's the dog's name?" the clerk asked as she filled out the paperwork.

I looked at the Boston and thought about it for a minute. I had never named anything in my life.

"Felix," I said. "I named him after my grandfather."

Pooch duties finished and a new license dangling from his collar, Felix and I went back to my office. I filled his new water bowl from the bathroom tap and settled behind my desk to figure how much I made off this little adventure. After Ignacio's fee, bribing the convenience store clerk, vet bills and all of Felix's supplies my net profit was six hundred dollars. I decided not to bill Millie for my expenses. She had paid enough already. Oh well, no new stereo for me.

Leaning back in my chair I looked at Felix sleeping on my couch. Outside my window the cool spring breeze carried the promise of summer and the racket from the music store below. But if Felix heard the noise he didn't show it. He just snoozed away, dreaming whatever dreams dogs dream.

"All this for a dog," I said to no one in particular. "Jesus Christ."

Overwatch

I had just been hired to follow a guy. Funny thing was, I had no know idea why I was being hired to follow him. The guy paying me just said, "Keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn't get into trouble."

"What kind of trouble?"

"You'll know it when you see it."

Normally I don't work on cases without having some facts, but I owed the guy one so I took the job. Hoping the work would be easy I clipped my gun on my hip, slipped into the trench coat my girlfriend gave me last Christmas and headed out the door. When I caught my reflection in a store window I smiled. Stunning. Then I got in my car and drove to Manhattan.

Around nine-thirty in the evening I parked my car my next to a hydrant on West 14th Street. The guy I was supposed to follow over would be on 12th. When I found him he looked harmless enough. Pudgy and around forty, he wearing a black leather jacket, blue jeans and a pair of sturdy looking black shoes. A soft rain was falling, misting the light from the street lamps into disinterested halos. The man didn't have an umbrella but didn't seem to notice the rain. Then again he didn't seem to notice the anything – not the homeless people begging for change, the artsy types outside the galleries or the pretty co-eds with cute butts walking down the street. Feeling the co-eds were being neglected I decided to notice for him. The guy was deep inside his head but I didn't wonder why. It made him easier to tail.

The man went into a bar off 11th so I followed him inside. It wasn't my kind of place – noisy crowded, full of impossibly young students boasting about how important their lives were going to be. Besides, the music was bad. The man sat at the bar and ordered a double scotch on the rocks. I grabbed a stool on the opposite side and ordered a Blue Moon draft. I stole glances at the guy while I pretended to study the menu.

I watched as the guy drank his scotch with great deliberation. As he sipped he stared at his reflection in the mirror over the bar. His face looked like he was girding himself for an unpleasant task. Halfway though his drink his cell phone vibrated on top of the bar. He glanced at the screen, downed his scotch and walked out. I dropped a ten on the bar and followed him.

The guy went around the block and met a slim girl in blue jeans and a tight fitting leather coat coming out of a building. She was very pretty and her long brown hair was tied in a ponytail. The man said a few words and they started walking down the street. As I fell in behind them I could hear the girl chattering nervously. The man didn't say much. They held hands for a minute but when the girl let go he stuffed his hands inside his coat.

After a few blocks they walked into a restaurant near Union Square and sat at a table in the back. I went to bar where I could keep an eye on them and got another beer. When the bartender set a bowl of peanuts down in front of me my nostrils flared inelegantly. I hadn't eaten during the drive over and I was hungry. After a while the waitress brought the girl a hamburger and the guy another scotch. I was envious of the girl's hamburger. Pretty soon the couple was in deep conversation. I couldn't hear what they were talking about but judging from their body language it wasn't good. Sipping my beer I watched as emotions ran riot across the girl's face. The man looked like he was imploding into the center of himself.

Halfway through the girl's hamburger the man finished his scotch. The waitress appeared and pointed to his empty glass. The man nodded and the waitress went away. Then the conversation took a turn. The man slammed his hand down on the table and the girl flinched. The people sitting at the next table glanced at the couple covertly and started whispering to one another. When the waitress arrived with the man's second scotch I silently prayed he didn't drink it. He looked like he was about to explode. Three drinks in half an hour are not good for the temper.

But instead of drinking the man stood up and put on his coat. He reached for his wallet but the girl grabbed his hand and shook her head.  Leaning forward the man said something, planted a kiss on her lips and walked out leaving a perfectly good whisky on the table.

When I got outside the guy was trying to hail a cab. Because of the weather most of the cabs were taken and the guy was competing with twenty other people for the leftovers. As the rain started coming down harder his face contorted into rage and he yelled, "Fuck!" at the top of his lungs. The people around him jumped. Suddenly he didn't look harmless anymore.

"What the wrong with you asshole? " a big guy in gym clothes shouted at him. The man ignored him and continued walking briskly down the street. The gym rat started after him. Uh oh. This was the trouble I was hired to look out for. I ran up and grabbed Gym Rat by the arm.

"Leave him be," I said. "He didn't mean anything by it."

"Fuck him," Gym Rat said, his face reddening "He can't do that in front of me."

"He's having a bad night. We've all have bad nights."

"He's not the only one having a hard time in this city. I'm gonna give that clown a piece of my mind."

Just great. My guy just had to piss off another person in an equal amount of pain. It felt like I was watching two burn victims bumping into each other in a hospital corridor.

"Let it go brother," I said.

"You can't tell me what to do."

"Yes I can," I said, squeezing his arm like a vise.

"Hey," Gym Rat squealed, his anger shifting towards me. "Get your hands off me."

I'm six-two and weigh two hundred pounds.  I used to box professionally, can bench press 300 pounds and run five miles a day. I've killed several men and busted up more people than I care to remember.  Gym Rat was all show muscle and attitude. I squeezed harder.

"Go home," I said softly. "This isn't the time or the place."

Gym Rat looked up at me and crunched through his options. Sensing they weren't good he said, "Okay man. No worries."

"Thank you," I said, letting go of his arm. "You have a nice night."

The man I was supposed to follow was already a block ahead of me. If he got lucky and snagged a cab I'd lose him. I jogged up the street and fell in behind him. Hearing my footfalls he turned around and looked at me.

"Are you following me?" he said.

Not having a slick answer I said, "Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because you look like you'll kill the first guy who looks crossed-eyed at you." I said. "Calm down."

The man stopped and leaned against a lamppost. He was breathing heavy.

"Take deep breaths," I said. "Get some air into your lungs. You'll feel better."

The man took in a shuddering breath, held it and let it out. He looked like he was drowning in a glass of water.

"Trouble with the lady?" I said.

"Yeah," the man said.

As I waited for the man to catch his breath I stood next to him silently. The only sound in the world was the rain falling.

"I've been where you've been." I said after a minute. "You'll be okay."

"I know," the man said. "I know."

"How are you getting home?"

"I have a car."

"You're a mess," I said. "Why don't you let me drive?"

The man shrugged and handed me his keys. Not the talkative type I guess.

I found the man's car wedged between an SUV and a pick up all the way over on the East Side. After we climbed inside I gracefully slid out of the tight spot and headed towards 8th Avenue. If the man noticed my masterful car handling skills he didn't say anything.

"You mind if I smoke a cigar?" he said.

"It's your car," I said. "And your lungs."

The man slid a short stubby cigar out of a cellophane wrapper and lit it with a wooden match. After he got it going he opened the passenger window for ventilation.

"Where do you live?" The man told me and I started looking for the Lincoln Tunnel. New York's not my normal beat and I was afraid of getting lost. That'd be embarrassing.

"You want to talk about what happened?"

"No," he said.

"Hard stuff."

"Yeah."

"Okay," I said. "Just sit back and enjoy the ride."

Soon we were in tunnel and headed for the Garden State. Call me Natty Bumppo. But as we drove under the Hudson the man's cigar really started to annoy me. I decided not to say anything and rolled down my window.

"So who are you?" the man asked. His voice sounded tired.

"I'm a private detective," I said. "I was hired to watch over you tonight."

"A private detective?" he said, laughing harshly. "You've got to be kidding me." I shrugged.

"How'd you get into that racket?"

"I like the work," I said. "Besides you know what they say, 'Can't sing. Can't dance….'"

"I didn't need you back there," the man said. "I can take care of myself."

"We all need some help sometimes. Besides, I owe the guy who hired me a favor."

"Whatever."

Soon we pulled up to frame house on a tree-lined street. The man looked at it like he was about to walk into prison.

"This the place?"

"Yeah," the man said, tossing his cigar out the window.

"Listen," I said. "You wanted something you couldn't have from a person who couldn't give it to you. Happens all the time."

"Sure."

We got out of the car and I gave him his keys. The booze had finally hit him and he swayed unsteadily on his feet.

"Who hired you anyway?" he asked.

"You did."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

I patted him on the shoulder. "See you around kid."

The man shook his head in confusion and went inside the house. After he slept off the whisky he'd forget all about me. That was okay. I was used to it.

After a minute a light went on and somewhere inside the house a dog barked.  I pulled the collar of my trench coat up against the rain walked to the bus stop. When I got back to the city I retrieved my car and headed back to Boston, feeling like I'd live forever.

Not Yet

Two weeks ago my dog Buster became unable to jump on the couch. Buster lives on the couch so I found this development mildly worrisome. At nine years old he has some arthritis and is not a limber as he still thinks he is. Then a few days later his back legs gave out and he almost tumbled down the steep stairway leading up to my apartment. If I hadn't been behind him to break his fall he'd have been a dead duck. I called the vet and made an appointment for the next day.

The next morning, however, Buster was walking in tight left circles and falling down every few feet. And, when I got to the vet, the hammer of every dog owner's fear came crashing down.

"There's something neurological going on," the vet said after taking one look at him.

My vision tunneled and I felt like I was going to faint. I plopped into a chair and started breathing heavy. I knew what was going on, I was having a stress reaction. I thought that Buster was going to die.

Looking concerned for me, the vet, who is a really sweet man, said, "Let me take Buster in the back and examine him". My nervous pacing wore a trench into the linoleum floor. Then the vet came back with more bad news.

"Buster had a seizure while I was checking him out," he said. "He needs to see a neurologist right away." I was handed an address and my dog. "Go now," the vet said, looking brokenhearted. "And good luck." I wasn't even charged for the visit, but the look of sympathy on the vet's face alarmed me. It was the look doctors have when when they know things are going very bad.

I got into my car, secured Buster and made a beeline for the highway. I had no idea where the specialist hospital was and, to be honest, my brainpower had been reduced by 50 percent. I really shouldn't have been driving. Luckily I had OnStar to feed me the directions. Of course, being rush hour, the roads were jammed. My anxiety was so high a bottle of Xanax wouldn't have put a dent in it. Then I realized I had to get my shit together, pronto. I managed to relax myself, more for Buster's sake than mine, and made it to the hospital. Then I got more bad news.

"Brain tumor, meningitis, or a hole in the spinal cord," the neuro vet said. "These can all cause the symptoms we're seeing. We'll have to admit him and do an MRI." So Buster was whisked away and the receptionist told me I had to put down a mighty big deposit. MRIs are very expensive. I slapped down my Amex card without a second thought.

There wasn't much to do after that. The docs had to stabilize Buster and the tests couldn't be run until the next day. My girlfriend joined me and, before we left, one of the techs brought Buster out to say goodbye. His tail wagged when he saw me, but I could see he was frightened. That broke my heart.

Being an idiot, when I got home I Googled "dog" and "brain tumor" and discovered that Buster's symptoms hit very one of that condition's diagnostic indicators. What would I do if that were the case? Take him home to live out his last days? I didn't want to see him suffer or deteriorate. I did not want to take my dog home to die. It was then I realized I might be faced with a terrible decision. I didn't know what to do. "This will kill me," I said to my girlfriend. "He's too young. It's not his time. It's all too fast. If I have to put him down this will just kill me. " It wouldn't have of course, but that's how I felt at the time.

So I lost it, utterly and completely.  I haven't cried so hard in years and, if my girlfriend weren't with me, it would have been exponentially worse. After the storm of emotion left me drained I went to bed and, amazingly, fell asleep. That was the only mercy that terrible Thursday.

My girlfriend stayed home from work the next day as we waited for the tests to be run. To be honest, the financial hit I was taking was unnerving me too. I am lucky to have resources I can draw on to cover the costs, not every one does. Years ago I took out pet insurance to guard against this very kind of disaster. When I got Buster I was a broke waiter, but I never wanted to have to put him down because of lack of funds. Some people have to and I understand that, but not me. I wouldn't be able to live with myself.

When I called my ex to tell her the bad news, she cried too. But when she got herself together she said. "I feel so bad for you! Buster's your baby." And she's right. For the past nine years, Buster has been sort of my child. I know that make me sounds like one of those crazy dog people you see on TV, but I guess that's what I am. Some people might tell me that my response to all this is way out of proportion. Having a sick dog is not like having a sick child, but what you feel is what you feel.

By five o'clock on Friday I was almost out of my mind. Then the doctor called. No tumor. No meningitis or spinal cord holes. The MRI revealed that Buster has two messed up vertebrae compressing his spinal cord. That's what was causing the problems. While surgery was an option, the doctor counseled trying to handle the situation medically. Buster was put on steroids and stayed in the hospital for four days in case he had another seizure. There were none. The docs have no idea what caused it. It could have been brought on by stress but I was so happy I didn't have a terrible decision to make. So my girlfriend and I went to the movies and saw The Artist. It was a great film. By the way, I missed my 25th high school reunion that night. I was too spent for public appearances.

Monday came and I went to the hospital to get my dog. Before I could even see him I had to pay the bill in full. Ouch. Then, as we went over the discharge instructions, the doctor told me to give Buster a tapering dose of steroids for three weeks and put him on strict cage rest for at least a month.  I knew that would suck because Buster is used to having the run of the house. He also didn't look a hell of a lot better than when I dropped him off, but I told the vet if Buster came back 75 percent I'd be happy. Now I had to settle in for the long haul.

My Dad had open-heart surgery a month ago. In a funny way, getting your chest cracked open, your heart stopped and restarted and your valves sewn up is the easy part. Dad came though it like a trooper but recovery, it turns out, is really the hard part. Your moods swing, you can't drive or have to ride in the back seat like a kid and you're basically housebound, totally dependent on others to help you live.  You have doctors, nurses, physical and occupational therapists poking and prodding you and mundane things like showering or taking a piss become Herculean efforts. Dad's doing fine, thank God, but now I'm facing a similar situation with Buster. After care for a dog is a bitch.

Cage rest sucks, but it has to be done. Because of the steroids, Buster is eating and drinking more, so he's peeing and pooping more – usually when we have to sleep. I can't tell you how many times my girlfriend and I have carried Buster out at three, five and six in the morning. Our sleep cycles are trashed. My mother said it's good training to have a baby. If Buster hears us moving around in the apartment, he cries and whinny's until someone comes to hold him. But we can't do that every time. It's not good for him. Since he's also used to sleeping in our bed, when he see's our Boston Terrier snuggling under the covers while watching from the cage, oh man, it's bad. The Boston is still trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

Two weeks later, I'm happy to report, Buster is back to eighty percent. Some lameness is still in his left hind leg, so he still falls down from time to time. He's not out of the woods yet, when he's off the steroids we'll have to watch him carefully, but we'll do everything to keep him from an operation. The vet even suggested acupuncture and I just might try it. Buster is a Japanese Chin, so, in a strange way, it's part of his heritage.

But no matter what happens, we'll have to change the way we handle Buster. He'll always wobble and will have to be carried up and down stairs for the rest of his life. And since he loves to jump onto the couch and bed, an activity that must be minimized, my girlfriend and I will get some do-hickeys  to help him get to his favorite places more easily. When we're not around, he'll have to be in a cage. There's a bit of mourning associated with that because Buster won't be the dog he once was. But when I remind myself how crazy I was at the thought of losing him, that puts it all into perspective.

Now it's Monday night and as I write this, Buster is lying next to me on the couch. I give him some one on one time every night so he doesn't feel like he's being punished. The funny thing about dogs is that they really don't know when they're handicapped. They think everything is just going along swimmingly so Buster doesn't know what the fuss is about. Dogs are simple creatures. They just want to be loved and to love you.

The past weeks have reminded me that everything and everybody gets old. At some point we all will be unable to do the things we've done before. We have to accept that, one-day, we will lose the people (And pets) we love the most. One person told me, "I'll never buy another dog. When my last one died, I was devastated. I never want to go through that again." I can sure understand that, but I know that when Buster goes to his reward I'll get another dog. Dogs give you far more than you give them, and they are worth the pain when you lose them. The same thing could be said about love. You will always lose it, either though death or life's cruel turns, but that should never stop you from seeking it. A life bereft of love is a cold and dark existence. And from all the support I received, especially from my girlfriend, I know Buster and I are loved. That's a great feeling.

Buster is now snoozing, happy to be in his favorite place in the world, next to me. As he whimpers softly, chasing squirrels in his dreams, I stroke his silky fur and smile. Not yet old boy.

Not yet.

Ghouls

My girlfriend loves estate sales. Every weekend for the past couple of months, she's been hunting for bargains in what I call "dead old lady houses," usually with me in tow. The irony that I'm engaging in a Yuppie activity akin to antiquing is not lost on me.

My girlfriend has indeed found some nice deals, like an Irish lace tablecloth and a china tea service she paid 25 bucks for and could sell on EBay for $300. I wasn't too crazy about the antique sewing machine that is now taking precious space in our small apartment but, to be fair, she's also been looking for things to class our place up. Before she moved in, my domicile was a true bachelor pad. Now femininity is relegating my stuff into the second bedroom I use as an office. That's the way it goes, but the apartment sure looks nicer. Smells nicer too.

But estate sales kind of unnerve me. You are going into a house where the occupant had died and picking though their stuff. "The best sales," my girlfriend told me, "is when a younger person dies." A woman in her apartment building, a buyer for a ritzy department store in New York, succumbed to pancreatic cancer at the age of fifty, so all her stuff was in good condition and still fashionable. My girlfriend felt bad for the woman but she still thought the sale was a "score."

To date, I have purchased six dollars worth of stuff on these excursions – a Swiss Army Knife and an old tape measure – both of which I threw into my girlfriend's purse. Other than that, I haven't been interested in much of anything. My primary role on these trips is to act as chauffeur and say, "Don't buy that." But I have seen some spectacular houses. One was a large and very old time Italian home in Weehawken with a breathtaking view of Manhattan. Standing in the $2.5 million dollar home's glass enclosed back porch, I could glimpse the flickering neon signs of Time Square and watched open mouthed as a mammoth cruise ship pulled out of dock and set sail to destinations unknown. The house, however, was furnished like something out of The Godfather, leading me to ask how many Mafioso got whacked in the basement. The lady running the sale was not amused

In that same town we also found a beautiful converted brownstone with pristine grand piano on the first floor and an elegant salon in the apartment upstairs. The new owners were in the midst of renovations and asked us if we'd like to rent it. Would've been nice, but the place didn't have the three P's – price, pets and parking. They wanted $2600 a month for place in an area where fistfights break out over parking spaces and you couldn't even have a cat. No thank you. But I knew some Manhattanite real estate fetishist or refugee from Hoboken would rent it by the end of the day.

Despite getting to see some cool homes, I'm still bothered by the mercenary attitude of many people who flock to these sales. Every person overseeing these events, usually supplied by a professional company, have told me that large lines of people queue up an hour before the doors open, eager to be the first person to swoop in and find some discarded treasure. "They almost knocked me down when I opened the door," one agent told me. "They usually know what they're looking for. I had one lady buy all the draperies in the place five minutes after she was inside." Many of these people are interior decorators or people hustling to buy stuff low and sell it high online. Of course, some are just regular people like me. But when I asked one agent if the interior decorators or professional antiquers gave them little kickbacks to get in early, my question was met with stony silence. I'll take that for a yes.

The sales are usually quite crowded. One day, in a very small but well maintained home built in 1900, the place was filled with people bumping into each other and I could feel my undiagnosed agoraphobia start ramping up. It's interesting to note that most of the buyers are usually very quiet and tend not to make eye contact with others; lest they tip off the competition what they're fondling might be valuable. But the jostling, a few shades short of rude, made me fell like the walls were closing in so I dashed outside. As I caught my breath I thought to myself that these people were ghouls, picking through the material remains of the dead. Yes, I know I'm calling my girlfriend a ghoul, but she's more like Casper the Friendly Ghost, and a cute one at that.

Not all of the houses we've visited, however, have been nice. In fact quite a few of them have been very sad. This Sunday we went to a house where the place reeked of "old person smell" and the entire upstairs looked like it had never been finished. Then I realized it had been finished, but the owner had let it fall into horrid disrepair. To be honest, it looked like a hotel room 20 years after Keith Richards trashed the place in some drug-fueled guitar smashing mania. Even the toilet was broken.

The first floor wasn't much better. The occupant seemed to have limited his existence to the downstairs bathroom, bedroom and kitchen. I knew a guy had been the last person to live here because even a dying old woman usually keeps her living room in good order. This guy's place was filled with the detritus of a life breaking down.

As my girlfriend rooted around the kitchen, I picked though the old man's stuff on the front porch. There was a picture of him in a World War II uniform and a yellowing photo of him and his wife on their wedding day. They looked young and vital, the future in front of them bursting with possibility. I also uncovered some autograph books from his wife's high school days, pages with limericks, well wishes and hopes for a happy tomorrow written in long faded ink. When she was young, did that woman frozen in the sepia tinted pictures even think about when there would be no tomorrows? What would she think about a guy like me roaming around her home, looking for clues about her life? I also couldn't help but think, how long ago did this man's wife die? How long had he been alone? Who knows? Maybe his wife left him and is still alive in a nursing home somewhere, not caring that her old beau was dead. But whatever happened, this man spent his last days living in a junk pile. I did find estimates to fix up his house squirreled away in his desk; but it was obvious he never had the work done. Maybe he didn't have money. Maybe he didn't care because the tenderest part of him had gone into that long good night.

My girlfriend didn't find any "scores" so we left. But as we drove back home I was thinking about my last days. Would I end up like that guy? The way my life is going, I don't think so – but you never know what cards life will deal you. A guy born today might be rifling though my shit fifty years from now.

"Honey," I said as we slipped onto the highway, "When I die don't let people like that into our home. Just give my stuff away to family and friends. The idea of some guy carting off my collection of pocketknives for twenty bucks would make me roll over in my grave."

"What happens if I go first?" my girlfriend said. Good question.

"Honey," I replied. "I think it's finally time for me to get a will."

Anything to keep the ghouls away.

Customer Disservice

Hi everybody.

I'll be on CNBC tonight. The program is titled, "Customer Disservice" and it will air at 9pm ET/8pm CT. Tune in!

Merry Christmas

Hey everybody:

Sorry I've been away so long. Let's just say my life is unfolding nicely and I've been very busy. I'm enjoying the holidays with my fantastic and lovely girlfriend, so I'm just fine.

May you all have a Happy (Insert appropriate holiday here) and a wonderful New Year!

And if you go out to eat tonight, tip your server well!

All the best

Steve

50 Reasons I Love New Jersey

I'm a New Jerseyan and proud of it. Here's why!

1. Because we have the most diners in the world, you can always get something to soak up the booze at 3:00 AM.

2. The Jersey accent makes you sound tough, even if you aren't.

3. You're usually only three persons removed from knowing a Mafia guy.

4. We have the beautiful Jersey Shore. (And the bad tipping Québécois that go with it.)

5. We have Princeton. Not too shabby. Einstein didn't seem to mind living in Jersey either.

6. The light bulb, the phonograph and motion pictures were invented here. I'm pretty sure the first porn flick was made here too.

7. Jersey Babes.  If you need to ask why, you'll never understand.

8. Our governor doesn't give a shit what you think of him. He doesn't even give a shit what we think of him!

9. We've take wearing leather to an art form. Black leather blazer with green leather pants? Rock on.

10. I enjoy feeling like a shark when I see Zip cars with New York tags on the Turnpike. Blood in the water!

11. Cheese fries. Cheese fries with gravy.

12. I love always being ten minutes from a mall – until it's Christmas.

13. Gasoline pumped by friendly attendants. How civilized. Only Oregon has a similar sense of class.

14. I can give snobby New Yorkers faulty directions and send them into Newark.

15. Jersey's a movable olfactory feast.

16. We have the highest property taxes and auto insurance rates. We're number one! We're number one!

17. The Statue of Liberty is ours; we just don't want to make the support payments.

18. We have two New York pro football teams.

19. It's easy to get Newark Airport. JFK? Fuggedaboutit.

20. Our State Troopers wear scary uniforms modeled after the German Army! Not that Smokey the Bear shit.

21. We all know where Jimmy Hoffa's buried. We just ain't telling.

22. We have the second largest waterfall on the East Coast  – in Paterson of all places.

23. One of the first commercial television networks (DuPont) began broadcasting out of Passaic. So, in a weird way, Snooki and the Situation is our fault.

24. We have to love Bruce Springsteen under penalty of death.

25. We have the most guys named Tony. We have the most girls named Tina.

26. We were invaded by Mars.

27. We took down a Nazi dirigible. Yes, that was us.

28. We have the biggest state Napoleon complex in America. Probably because his brother lived here.

29. We had the Lindbergh baby thing long before OJ Simpson was born.

30. George Washington slept just about everywhere here. Guy got around.

31. Samuel Colt made the first revolver here. You feeling lucky, punk?

32. The modern submarine was developed here. And I don't mean that sandwich deluded out-of-staters insist on calling  a hoagie, grinder or a hero.

33. New Jersey was corrupt before Chicago was a name on a map.

34. The Army tests secret weapons here. Probably because of that Martian thing.

35. A shitload of Nobel Prizes were earned in Jersey. (Princeton has 35 alone) See! We're smart.

36. We have more municipalities than California and are way cooler.

37. If Manhattanites are suddenly faced with a zombie outbreak, we have plans to blow up those bridges and tunnels they love to make fun of.

38. Batman lives in New Jersey.

39. We are the country's third largest cranberry producer. Dead mafia guys make great fertilizer.

40. We used to have the Miss America pageant until some jerk took it from us. When we find that guy Tony Soprano will fuck him up real good.

41. We have more vintage IROC-Z cars than any state in America. (You have to be from Bloomfield to get that reference)

42. Frank Sinatra was from Hoboken. He hated the place, sure, but he's still ours.

43. Watching tourists trying to drive though one of our traffic circles. We should sell tickets.

44. Our sweet corn is the shit.

45. A significant percentage of our male population gets their eyebrows threaded.

46. Sacred Heart Cathedral in Newark is bigger than St. Patrick's. So there!

47. The first dinosaur bones were found here – next to the bodies of Tony "Cannoli" Zamboni and Frank "The Fink" Careltti.

48. If you want to get rid of your car, leave it in Newark for five minutes.

49. Jersey is musically stuck in the Eighties. Bon Jovi! Bon Jovi!

50. Valium was invented in NJ. You'll need it on the Turnpike.

When Shrinks Go Wrong

This morning I read an article in the New York Times that really upset me. Titled, "My Shrink is my Co-Author" the author, Susan Shapiro, describes the ups and downs of writing a book with her longtime psychotherapist "Dr. W."

The good doctor, it seems, is an expert on addictions who helped Ms. Shapiro quit "cigarettes, alcohol, marijuana, gum and bread" several years and somehow they decided to write a book on addiction together. (The article is unclear as to whether Ms. Shapiro or Dr. W suggested writing the book in the first place.) Ms. Shapiro goes onto write that Dr. W's sessions cost $200 a pop so, in return for her writing the book, he would treat her for free. Uh-oh.

As she engages in this process, Ms. Shapiro discovers that her relationship with Dr. W has changed. "As a therapist, he was perceptive, sensitive, caring," she writes. "As a coauthor, not so much." She also learns personal details about him, like he had an abusive alcoholic mother, and starts dispensing advice to him. When Dr. W. flubs a biography detail in a magazine article designed to pitch the book to prospective publishers, Ms. Shapiro tells him, "Afraid of success, you subconsciously took the title off the bio that would get us the publishing deal…..Perfect sabotage, the kind of thing you taught me not to do. How does that make you feel?"

Realizing the situation is not working, Ms. Shapiro laments that Dr. W has rescheduled her appointments to the daytime, leaving his evenings free for higher paying clients. Upset and hoping to unravel the situation, she leaves voice mails and sends "twenty-emails" with no reply. She eventually has to arrange a paid session with Dr. W to work things out. So they come to a compromise. She will keep the entire advance for the book in exchange for paying Dr. W his regular fee. But when she finds out that Dr. W jacked up his fee 25 dollars without telling her, Ms. Shapiro is again upset, thinking it's retaliation. When she goes to another psychotherapist for advice she's told that the "boundary crossing" Dr. W was doing was 'unethical." The article wraps up with Ms. Shapiro finishing the book and comparing the writing process, in self-deprecating neurotic New Yorker fashion, as an addiction unto itself.

When I finished the article I wanted to throw my iPad against the wall. The reason I was so pissed? Because Ms. Shapiro's piece just reinforced something I've known for years.

A great many therapists are flat fucking crazy.

I have friends who are therapists. I also worked in the mental health industry for ten years. In that that time I learned that wackjobs populate the mental health world. We had a saying in the psychiatric hospital, "How do you know the difference between the patients and the staff? The staff has keys!" And there was many a time I wanted to throw the healers into a straight jacket. I knew a psychiatrist who married one of his patients and another who talked to himself on a regular basis. I worked with a hygienically challenged child social worker that wore the same clothes and ate the same food everyday. (The resultant smells thrilled the parents.) I also dealt with; nymphomaniacal manipulative psych nurses, active anorexics treating anorexics, drinkers treating drunks, people sexually acting out all over the place and dozens of depressed, anxiety-ridden and bi-polar therapists refusing to take meds or seek treatment. Sad to say, there are lots of therapists who should never get near a patient.

However, the biggest gripe I have with field is the same ones all my therapist friends have: that the therapeutic community is filled with badly trained clinicians and those with poor boundaries. I am not qualified to talk about how therapists are trained but, as one retired psychoanalyst with four decades of experience told me, "It's gone downhill over the past twenty years." But I can talk about the whole fucked up boundary thing.

A few years ago, a friend of mine started seeing a therapist. Excited about her quest for self-improvement, she told me to take a look at her West Side shrink's website. My first reaction was, aren't therapists supposed to be a kind of blank slate? What the hell is she doing with a website? And when I looked at the site I was seriously aggravated. It was basically an ad for the books the therapist had written about "putting the zing back into your sex life." Worse, at the bottom of the webpage, there was a notice that she had been a signatory to a petition to end the ear in Iraq. When I told my therapist friends this, they were aghast.

This is just one example of poor boundaries. This therapist has a right to express a political opinion of any stripe, just not in her professional space. Imagine going to a therapist's office and seeing Tea Party or Occupy Wall Street literature on the coffee table? What if a depressed conservative came in for help and saw a Che Guevara poster hanging on the wall? How would a liberal neurotic feel discovering an NRA magazine in the waiting room? The less the patient knows about the therapist's personal life, the better.

But the therapeutic boundary slippage usually isn't political. It's mostly personal. Just last week a therapist I know was bemoaning how a colleague of hers was socializing with his patients. Going with them to bars and concerts! When I did a catering gig as a waiter I was shocked to see that the host's therapist was in attendance at the party! Another friend of mine saw a therapist for an initial interview and told me that the guy spent the time griping about his own problems. Nuts. And don't even get me started about the therapists who've slept with former patients.

In her article, Ms. Shapiro's describes a therapist with a terrible sense of professional boundaries and ethics. It is unethical for a clinician to work with a patient on a project for financial gain. It's a no brainier. The reason you go to a therapist is to talk to an impartial observer who will advocate for your mental health. In order for this process to work the clinician, unlike your friends, family, coworkers, or spouse, can have no vested personal interest in you. Sure, you pay a shrink, but that's part of the process. It tells you that you're not just gabbing into a friendly ear but making an investment in your well-being. But it's not a barter system. You can't clean your clinician's house in exchange for free analysis! And when a clinician does what Dr. W. did, he commits a gross violation that makes you wonder about his own emotional health and ability to treat patients. Keeping your shit together is a necessary discipline for a therapist. If you can't do it, quit.

For sake of comparison, let me tell you about my old psychoanalyst. He was very different from Dr.W. Well trained, highly experienced, and compassionate, he was also rigorously ethical. Once, when it looked I might have inadvertently started dating a relation of his, he told me that we'd have to end our sessions. They weren't related and we got over that hump, but the episode spoke volumes about my analyst's professionalism. Can you imagine what would have happened if I asked him to go in on a business project with me? And in all the time I saw him, unlike Dr. W, my analyst returned every phone call I made. He never left me hanging. When it came to money my analyst wasn't greedy either. I paid him very little in the beginning. It was only when I finally started making real money that he gradually raised his fee to the regular rate. After a while "digging in the dirt" I got my issues resolved my analyst told me, "You don't need me anymore." He didn't treat me as a cash cow. He knew I was an author and didn't ask me to help him write a book. He didn't tell me about his problems. He helped me. And because of him I am in much better shape than I would be otherwise. Sadly, Dr W. is not a good therapist.

I feel sorry for Ms. Shapiro. She got used, And even though she was complicit in the process, she got exploited by the very person who was supposed to be looking out for her well-being. Dr. W should have said no. In no way should she have been privy to his personal life, much less feel compelled to give him psychological advice of her own. And if Dr. W committed this kind of boundary violation with her, you have to wonder if he's done it with his other patients. If so, the damage could incalculable. Dr. W. should stop seeing patients and get his head in order. If not he should have his license revoked or, at the very least, be seriously sanctioned. And, obviously, Ms. Shapiro should find a new therapist – one that doesn't want to write books with her. To paraphrase a line from her article, Let the writer write. Let the healer heal.

Sorry to get off on a rant here. I just feel very strongly on the subject. And here's a word of advice – if you start seeing a therapist and get the slightest inkling that they want to get something out of you – run for the door.

Tip News Update

It turns out the story about 25% tips in San Fransisco was made up!

But even though the story was bogus, it generated a lot of controversy. Such is the power of tipping!