This Dog for Hire Read Online Free PDF Page A

sat in silence for a while, watching Magritte wrestle with Dash.
    â€œYou wouldn’t think that big one would be so gentle,” Henri said. “Not even a growl when little Jimmy jumps all over him.”
    I nodded, my mouth too full of Pepperidge Farm Chessmen for me to speak. One of the reasons people are so afraid of pit bulls is that they usually don’t growl, even when they have ample reason to do so. If there’s anything scarier than a dog making a racket, it’s a silent one, especially if he’s not making a fuss because it’s clear he knows he doesn’t have to in order to get the respect he’s after.
    â€œListen, Henri,” I said when there was nothing left to eat, “I’d like to offer you a reward. My client is going to be so thrilled. I just can’t tell you what this will mean to him.”
    I reached into my coat pocket for my wallet. There was a fifty tucked away behind the picture of Dash, for emergencies.
    â€œI don’t want your money, Rachel.” He shook his head back and forth and reached his hand out to pat my other hand. “It’s been a privilege to have little Jimmy here with me.”
    â€œIt’s not my money, Henri. As I told you, I’m not Magritte’s owner. That young man was killed, and I work for the new owner. And he, my client, would be happy for me to give you something.” Of course, I hadn’t told Dennis what I had discovered yet. I wanted to have the dog before I got his hopes up, to see for myself that he was okay. And even though the call had come through NDR, I wasn’t about to send him out to retrieve the dog when its disappearance might have been connected to a murder. Somehow, when I heard Henri’s voice on the phone—I pay a lot of attention to the sound of people’s voices—I lost most, but not all, of my caution.
    â€œNo, no, I couldn’t take it,” Henri said. “It would give Jimmy here the wrong message.” At the sound of his name, Magritte, aka Jimmy Plaisir, jumped as sprightly as any cat and landed on Henri’s lap. Henri began to scratch the dog’s chest very gently, stroking him again and again, and I noticed how still Magritte stood on his friend’s lap and how he closed his eyes to concentrate on the pleasure.
    â€œHow about expenses?” I asked. “That’s certainly fair.”
    â€œWell, he did chew up some shoes for me,” Henri said. He began to laugh. “I didn’t tell you that part, did I? Oh, he can be a devil, this one.”
    â€œI know exactly what you mean,” I said. “I used to train dogs for a living. We call these ‘brat dogs.’”
    â€œI like that,” he said.
    I lifted the saltshaker and placed the fifty and my business card under it.
    â€œIf you should hear anything that might relate to the murder, Henri, you can call me anytime. I should be getting him home now. I can’t thank you enough. Who knows what would have happened to this dog without you?”
    It was nearly eleven when I was ready to leave Henri’s apartment with Magritte. Henri kept one toy, a bug-eyed green frog, “for memories,” he said, “and in case he come back sometime to visit his friend Henri.” He insisted I take the rest of the toys, as well as half a bag of Science Diet and two cans of Kal Kan chopped beef. Then he decided he had better drive me to SoHo, because how else was I going to get there with a bag of food and toys and two dogs? and anyway, he said, it would give him a chance to give Jimmy one more ride in the cab.
    We rode downtown in silence. Henri and Magritte were in the front. Dashiell and I rode in the back. Of course, the meter was off, so every few blocks someone stepped out into the street and tried to flag us down. Henri had asked where I live, and when I told him I lived in the Village, he insisted on waiting for me and driving me and Dash home. It took a bit