If Dogs Could Talk

by Bill Bernico

I looked through the binoculars, squinted and rolled my fingers across the focus knob until my subject came in clear. I panned back and forth, checking the paths that led past the park bench where my prey sat. The man on the bench was alone, except for his dog and a small boom box. He was leaning forward, petting the head of a large dog that sat at his feet. There wasn't another person within a hundred yards of my subject, yet his mouth was moving as if engaged in conversation. Maybe that's what became of men who killed other men for a living. They had no one to talk to and no one to share the day's events with and eventually ended up talking to dogs.

I handed the glasses to my partner, Willie Ross, who promptly cranked down his window and zeroed in on the park bench. He lowered the glasses.

"The son-of-a-bitch is just sitting there," he said, "without a care in the world. Man, that's cold."

I sipped from my cardboard coffee cup and looked over at Willie. "Well," I said, "when you've been in the business as long as Frank has, you learn to tune out the rest of the world along with your own emotions. Hell, I've heard tales where he slit a man's throat before breakfast and then chowed down like it was his last meal."

"So tell me once more," Willie said, "why is it this guy hasn't fried in the chair yet?" Willie aimed the glasses at Frank once more.

"A little technicality called witnesses," I said. "Without witnesses we can't make a case. Witnesses, if you recall, are the one thing this guy is good at eliminating. Remember that old landlady on Fifty-second Street ? What was her name? Polly, Molly something-or-other?

"Sally," Willie said, beaming that he'd remembered. "Sally Randolph. Yeah, kinda hard to testify with your tongue cut off and shoved down your throat."

The cars sped by on Evergreen Drive as we sat there, waiting for our surveillance duties to be taken over by a relief duo from the twenty-second precinct. Willie handed the glasses back to me and grabbed his own coffee cup from the cup holder protruding from the dash of our unmarked squad car. I found Frank Ross again in my field of vision. He was still sitting alone, petting his dog and talking to it. The dog seemed to enjoy the one-sided conversation and Frank seemed to have plenty to say. Then, as if on cue, he picked up the boom box and slipped a tape into the tape player part of it. His face went soft when the music started. At least I assumed it was music. I couldn't hear it from where we sat watching. Another few minutes in total relaxation and Frank stood up, untied the dog's lease from the bench and walked away with his dog and his boom box.

I laid the glasses on the seat next to me and started the engine. "Let's roll," I said.

The coffee in Willie's cup sloshed up over the side as I left the curb. "Take it easy, will ya?" Willie said, wiping the coffee off his lap.

I turned the corner at thirty-fifth and slowed to fifteen miles per hour, waiting for Frank to emerge from the south end of the park. Through the bushes I could make out the shape of a large dog being followed by a man. The dog stopped at the curb, as if trained to do just that, and waited. When the light turned green, he proceeded, dragging his master behind him. Frank walked another two blocks east before turning in to his own apartment building.

"Well," I said, turning to Willie," there's another day shot watching our boy go about his business. He didn't meet anyone, didn't call anyone and didn't stop anywhere except the park bench. We still have nothing."

Willie extended his arm out the car window and dumped what was left of his coffee in the street. He turned back to me and said, "I have an idea. I don't know if it'll work, but we've tried everything else."

"I'm game," I said, eager for details.

"It's a little strange," Willie said, smirking.

"Strange is good. I like strange."

"Well," Willie started, "you know Frank's to smart for traditional surveillance methods so we gotta stay one jump ahead of him." He paused for effect.

"Come on," I said impatiently, "give."

Willie laid out his plan for me in great detail, describing his procedures and ideas. I listened intently and jotted a few notes on my pad before returning it to my lapel pocket.

"What about the legalities?" I said.

"Leave that to me," Willie assured me. "This'll work. Besides, we got nothing to lose. We've tried everything else."

The next afternoon at precisely four-fifteen, Frank Ross and his dog appeared in the park. He sat at the same bench with his dog's leash tied to the leg of the bench. I watched with the binoculars for a few minutes while Willie twisted the dial on a small portable radio on his lap. Next to the radio Willie had a tape recorder rolling. Soon we could hear a voice.

"Ya know, Steve," the voice said, "I'm gonna have to get out of this business one of these days soon."

The dog sat at Frank's feet. I could see its tail wag as Frank talked. He petted the dog's head and continued.

"Last night's hit wasn't as easy as the rest. Ol' Lester put up a pretty good struggle and I'm not getting any younger, either." He continued stroking the dog's head. "If it wasn't for the money and the short hours and the chance to be my own boss, hell, I'd get out of the killing business and raise horses on a farm. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" The dog stood up and wiggled his whole body as if you say, "yeah, yeah, take me along."

Frank raised a flat hand overhead and the dog resumed his sitting position. We listened to the voice coming through the speaker again.

"Steve," he said," you've been a real help to me all these years. I can't talk to anyone else about my work. Not even a shrink or a minister. They'd never understand. You're a good listener and you never talk back. Best of all you'll never tell anyone what we talk about. Boy, if you could talk…I wonder. Would you tell anyone what you know--where the bodies are buried? Of course you wouldn't.”

Frank rested his elbows on his knees and sighed. “Well, boy, tonight's my last hit. We can leave this city and settle on that farm I showed you. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

The dog's tail slapped the grass.

"Just one last hit, boy, and we're home free," Frank told his dog. "Too bad it has to be the old man. He's given me lots of work over the years, but if we're going to make a break, I don't want to be looking over my shoulder for a guy like Aldo Renatti to be coming after me. You understand, don't you, Steve?"

The dog stood and edged closer to Frank.

"I knew you would," Frank said.

Frank leaned back, slipped a tape out of his pocket and inserted it into the player. Through our speaker came the distinct sounds of Mozart, although Mozart had never intended his music to be listed to through a two-inch speaker.

He petted the animal's head again and sat back, letting out an audible sigh that even the little microphone under the dog's collar picked up.

I turned to Willie. "That was a stroke of genius," I said. "We've tried bugs in his car and apartment but he's always found them. This is perfect. What made you think of it?"

Willie beamed with pride. "Bob," he said.

"Bob?"

"My dog. I tell Bob everything when I get home. Since Lois left me and took the kids Bob's been my best friend." He looked over at me and smiled suddenly. "That is, next to you."

I nodded acknowledgment. "But Steve?" I said. Whatever happened to Rover, Duke, and Shep?"

"Get with the times, man," Willie said. "Dogs are more like a part of the family these days and it's the latest thing to give your dog a human's name. Bob was my grandfather's name although no one ever took him for a walk on a leash."

"Great. That ought to make for a lot of confusion when mothers in the park start yelling for their rug rats and a pack of dogs show up. But what made you think Frank would open up to Steve?"

"I figured that since I tell Bob everything, why wouldn't Frank do the same with Steve?"

I talked as I watched Frank through the field glasses. "And how'd you get the bug under the dog's collar without Frank finding out?"

"Easy," Willie said. "Last night while he was out bumping some other schmuck off I slipped into his apartment. I'd been there so many times before with our other attempts to bug him that I knew the way. Hell, the dog even knows me by now and he sat there like a good puppy while I planted the bug. I was in and out in five minutes."

After fifteen minutes of cleansing his soul with the dog and the canned music, Frank rose and led the dog from the park back to his apartment again. Willie and I headed back to Willie's apartment with the tapes. He led me to his spare bedroom, which had been set up like some sort of high-tech laboratory. He threaded the tape into the large machine and turned it on. I watch as he worked his magic. The tape started and Frank's voice boomed.

"Ya know, Steve," the voice said, "I'm gonna have to get out of this business one of these days soon."

Willie rewound the tape and cued it up before grabbing a microphone from his desk. An hour and a half later we left his guestroom with tapes in hand. I slapped Willie on the back and laughed. "This ought to do it. If not, well, hell, it was still a lot of fun."

"Shall we find out?"

I extended my arm and bent at the waste. "After you." Will and I left his house and returned to the car. One of the newly edited tapes was wrapped in plain brown wrapping paper and addressed, stamped and dropped into the corner mailbox. The other was unwrapped but had only a white label that said, “Frank Ross” on it.

Three days later at exactly three fifty-five I was parked in the same spot where we first started observing Frank Ross's routine. Through the glasses I could see Willie approaching the bench. He laid the tape on the bench and casually strolled away. He was back at the car in five minutes.

"Has our boy showed up yet?" he asked.

I rolled the focus dial on the binoculars again and panned left and right, finally stopping on the bench. "There he is. Just like clockwork."

Willie pressed the start button on our recorder and picked up his own pair of glasses. "He's sitting down. Got the dog tied to the bench. He's setting the boom box…"

"I can see what he's doing," I said. "I don't need a play-by-play account."

Willie lowered his glasses and gave me a stare.

"Sorry," I said. "Take a look at that." We both aimed our glasses at the bench. Frank set his boom box down on the bench and noticed the tape Willie had left there with Frank's name on the label. Frank cautiously picked up the tape and immediately looked both ways down the paths that led to the bench. He turned around on the bench and looked behind him and then back at the tape. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

Frank looked around once more to be sure he was alone before slipping the tape into his player. In a few seconds we could hear what Frank was hearing. The voices sounded as though they were coming through a telephone.

"Frank, it's Steve. Just called to see how things went last night."

"Last night's hit wasn't as easy as the rest. Ol' Lester put up a pretty good struggle and I'm not getting any younger, either. If it wasn't for the money and the short hours and the chance to be my own boss, hell, I'd get out of the killing business and raise horses on a farm."

"Listen, Frank, I have another job for you. A special job, you might say. This one'll put you in the big leagues."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Frank you owe me on this one, after all I've done for you."

“Steve," Frank's taped voice said," you've been a real help to me all these years. I can't talk to anyone else about my work. Not even a shrink or a minister. They'd never understand. You're a good listener and you never talk back. Best of all you'll never tell anyone what we talk about."

"You know I wouldn't, Frank.

"I wonder. Would you tell anyone what you know--where the bodies are buried? Of course you wouldn't. Well, tonight's my last hit. Too bad it has to be the old man. He's given me lots of work over the years, but if we're going to make a break, I don't want to be looking over my shoulder for a guy like Aldo Renatti to be coming after me. You understand, don't you, Steve?"

Willie and I snickered at the imaginary conversation Jake was having with Steve, whoever Steve was supposed to be.

I could almost see the expression in Jake's eyes as he realized when and where his half of the conversation had taken place. He quickly stood up and grabbed the boom box. He lifted it overhead and brought it crashing down on the blacktop path that led to the bench. Jake grabbed his dog by the collar and ran his fingers around the inside rim until he found the bug.

He held it up to his lips and whispered, "whoever you are, you bastard, you're dead. You and your whole family." He threw the bug down hard on the path and the speaker on our recorder crackled and went dead.

Frank reached down into the smashed rubble that had once been a boom box and pulled the tape out of the player and slipped it into his coat pocket. He grabbed Steve's leash and hurried away from the park bench, forgetting all about his tape player. Willie and I watched as Frank headed north along the path. Several yards away a figure stepped out of the brush and into Frank's path. I could see the stranger extending his hand. Frank reached into his coat pocket and produced the tape and handed to the stranger. The stranger held up a tape of his own and held it side by side in a comparison gesture.

"Here it comes," Willie said.

He was right. The stranger slipped the tapes into his own pocket and when he pulled his hand back out, it was holding a small revolver. I heard two weak reports and saw a wisp of smoke. Frank dropped to his knees and the stranger stuck his gun in the back of Frank's neck. Another small pop and Frank lay flat on his face, a pool of blood forming beneath him. Steve reacted with a start and with his leash dragging behind him, began running full speed away from the noise and commotion.

The stranger threw the revolver on top of Frank's body and calmly walked away. A professional hit if ever I saw one. I focused my glasses on the far side of the park. Three black and whites and a detective's car merged at the north gate to the park. Another pair of uniformed officers converged from the south and covered the assailant from the rear.

I reached for the car radio to report the situation to the precinct desk when several, louder reports came from the area of the assailant. I lifted my glasses and looked. The assassin wasn't about to be taken alive. At least four of the officers' bullets hit the man. The back of his head exploded in a spray of gray and red as his body fell there in the park, not ten yards from where Frank lay.

I looked at Willie. Neither of us could seem to muster up any sympathy for the stone killers who lay in the park. "Better get back to the precinct. I have a feeling this stakeout job is finished."

Willie smiled. "Boy, the things I have to tell Bob when I get home."