He chuckles at the thought, then turns to Tyler. “Wouldn’t you like a great big doghouse?” He speaks in a form of baby talk.
Maybe it’s my imagination, but from my vantage point across the room, Tyler seems to edge closer to Willie, apparently aware that this couple are not going to become his new parents. And that great big outside doghouse that some people would like is definitely not going to be the place where he sleeps.
Willie and I have rather rigid ideas of what represents a good home for a dog. Stan and Julie have just demonstrated that, in our eyes, their home doesn’t make the cut. It is an unbending rule of the Tara Foundation that dogs must be allowed to sleep in the house.
I expect Willie to immediately terminate the session and send the Harringtons on their way, but for some reason he decides to delay the inevitable. He asks a question that sounds like a challenge. “Why do you guys want a dog?”
I see a quick flash of annoyance on Stan’s face. He doesn’t think he should have to answer all these questions; he should be able to buy a dog like he can buy anything else. “I had dogs when I was growing up,” he allows. “I’m a dog person.”
Willie doesn’t seem moved by this revelation, and Julie, sensing things are not going well, jumps in. “He’ll be like a member of our family. And he can guard—”
Willie interrupts, incredulous. “You want a guard dog?” He points to Tyler, who doesn’t seem that offended. “You think he’s a guard dog?”
His tone causes me to get up and walk toward them. Willie’s generally been on his good behavior, but he can be volatile, and he’s a black belt in karate, so there is always the potential for things to get a little ugly.
“Mr. and Mrs. Harrington,” I say, “I’m afraid we don’t have any guard dogs up for adoption.”
Stan is getting frustrated. “We didn’t mean a guard dog. We just want a dog that will bark if someone enters the property.” He holds up a newspaper that is on the desk. “I mean with what’s going on . . .”
He is of course referring to the murder last night in Passaic, the third victim of the serial killer who has dominated the news. It is pretty much all anyone is talking about. “Julie’s alone in the house all day,” he points out.
“Then why don’t you adopt a goddamn burglar alarm?” Willie asks, standing and getting a tad hostile. I shoot him a look that says, “I’ll handle this,” but he disregards it. “Or maybe you can adopt a fucking Secret Service agent.” These dogs are like his kids, and he’s not about to put them in the line of fire.
Stan gets up. He’s not going to confront Willie, since in addition to being a “dog person,” he’s a “sane person.” “I can see this was a mistake,” he says. “Come on, Julie.” She’s a little slow, so he helps her to her feet and guides her toward the door. The last thing I hear her say before they exit is, “But what about the dog?”
Willie shakes his head in disgust. “Losers.” Then he turns to me. “You know why losers like that come here? They don’t want no dog. They come here because of you, because they think you’re hot shit.”
Now I get annoyed, an increasingly frequent occurrence of late. “Fine. It’s my fault. Okay? Does that make you happy?”
He grins widely; Willie can change moods even faster than I can. He taps me on the shoulder. “Hey, lighten up, huh? You can’t help it if you’re hot shit.”
Willie is only partially right about why people like the Harringtons come here. The two big cases in the past year have made me a celebrity lawyer of sorts. But one of those cases was Willie’s, and as a wrongfully convicted man set free, he’s become a big shot in his own right. So people come here because they’ve heard of both of us and it’s a cool thing to do, rather than go to breeders or pet stores or whatever.
“We’ve placed thirty-one dogs,” I say. “That’s not bad for five weeks.”
He nods. “Damn right. Not bad at all.” Then, “You going to the meeting tomorrow?”
He’s talking about an informal investment group I made the mistake of organizing. I’ve regretted it from day one, which was about two months ago.
I nod reluctantly just as the phone rings, which