Poochie's Progress

Luc Beaubois

“Buck up boys, it's all over but the shouting.” Bartholomew Trask glared at them, not at all amused by rich kids and their pranks. They sat huddled together on the bed, Sammy dripping wet, Brent in tears.

He'd tracked the wise-ass college boys to a seedy motel on the outskirts of Baltimore. When he'd broken into their room, gun in hand, growl in his throat, they were swilling beer and congratulating themselves on a job well done. Sammy, a scion of the Harrigan clan, had pissed himself right then and there. Brent, his cousin and also a Harrigan, had fallen to his knees and begged for his life. Not that Trask would've shot them. He was there to find them but giving them a pissing good scare warmed his heart.

When he'd gotten them settled and sitting, he pressed for information. He'd found them, but one dog and one elderly Aunt were missing.

“So, let's hear it, ‘cause your granddaddy ain't paying me to fuck around. Where's the dog? For that matter where's your crazy Aunt Brenda?”

“We don't know.” Brent's voice shook.

“Everyone thought it was a joke. They all thought it was funny.” Sam's rich-boy green eyes bore into Trask.

Trask wasn't sure it was because he'd ruined the spoiled kid's joke or because the kid was forced to sit in his piss drenched pants.

“Yeah well your granddaddy ain't laughing.”

“Who the hell thought Aunt Brenda would go missing?” Brent whined. “We were just playing around, trying to teach her a lesson with that dumb dog of hers.”

“Guess what, boys?” Trask paused to dislodge a sesame seed from between his teeth. Breakfast could be murder sometimes. He drew out the act and watched the boys squirm. Home from college after their first year and already making trouble. Of course, Trask didn't care. He was a hired gun and Harrigan trouble meant Harrigan money in his pocket. He being the guy of choice when any member of that bunch took a hot water dip. When he saw that Brent was about to explode, he smiled. “You two are in shit deeper than your granddaddy's bank vaults.”

“We…” Brent sputtered. “We didn't do…”

“Hey, this ransom note says you two are gonna be playin' hide the salami with your cell mates for a few years in some maximum security joint.”

Sammy started crying then. He'd been pretty solid up until the thought of some big inmate cozying up to him began to work its way into his consciousness.

“We didn—didn't send a ransom note,” Brent said, his own tears still flowing. “It wasn't about money.”

“You may have a chance, boys, but it all depends on you. Where's your Aunt and where's the dog? Why'd you ask for so much?” He hoped his utter disdain was coming through loud and clear.

“W-we don't know,” Sam said, looking at the floor, his voice low. “It was all just a joke. But no way we sent that note. We were going to bring the dog back.”

“Look,” Brent said. “We just wanted to show Brenda what kind of an ass she is for making her dog the sole beneficiary of her will. That's family money…”

“And she wants to give it to a lousy dog,” Sammy nearly started to cry again.

“Touching. You gettin' broken up about dough. Listen up, you two. Maybe a few details might help pull your asses out of the fire – or at least it's gonna feel like a fire.” Trask had to admit he was enjoying this. He'd never liked the Harrigans. An arrogant bunch of rich assholes with money that was older than… well, it was old. And everything they didn't want known, they had buried so deep that no one ever found out a thing. Which is why two of them were governors in close-by states and they counted three senators and five representatives in their tally. If anyone could uncover the dirt on this family the Republican party would be in deep shit for a long time. But that wasn't happening. And they paid Trask too much for him to care about who did what to whom or why or when or where.

But these kids were convinced they'd be hauled off to Sodomy Beach if they didn't come across with the information their granddaddy wanted. And the old bastard just might do it, if he thought they were as weak as Trask could see they were. Weak links don't make for good security. And the Harrigans depended on silence and secrecy.

“I-it was this guy…” Sammy started.

“Named Seligman.” Brent finished. “A nerdy little guy. Real short, always dresses in black. We hired him to baby-sit the dog.”

“He's got the dog now?” Trask asked.

His cell phone interrupted his interrogation. He flipped it open and barked his name.

“Trask…. Yeah?.... When…. And that's it? We all done?...” He listened for a moment. His eyes taking in the room and the wise ass boys. “Okay, got it.”

“Bad news fellahs, your granddaddy wants the dog. Your Aunt Brenda is hysterical. She came wandering back a few minutes ago. She wants the pooch and she wants it now or she's gonna make sure you two pay with your sweet little asses.”

Sammy's eyes widened.

“We… we don't know where Seligman took the dog.” Brent said.

“We tol—told him to meet up with us here and we'd pay him.”

“You thinkin' maybe he sent that note?”

“He doesn't have the brains,” Sammy answered, his arrogance beginning to resurface. “He does what he's told. I've used him for a lot of things. The guy has no mind of his own.”

“Come with me,” Trask said, pleased that Sammy would have to walk around piss-drenched. Even square-jawed Brent was collaterally wet now.

They went to the front desk. It was surprisingly clean for the scumbag place it was. And the manager was a pert little brunette who had eyes the size of platters and boobs that would've made the Goodyear blimp blush.

Sammy described Seligman and the clerk's face brightened.

“He's the one with that cute dog. We don't usually allow animals but she was so sweet. They were so cute together. I couldn't resist.”

“So they were here?” Trask stopped her.

“Sure. Still are as far as I know. They didn't check out.”

“Room number?” Trask flashed an ID card fast enough so she didn't see it was his PAL membership and her expression sobered.

“It's 900, way off around the corner. He wanted a quiet room. Y'know…” Her voice became low.

Sammy ran out first. He didn't seem to care about his pants only about the impending threat to his ass.

“Sammy, wait!” Brent called after him then ran out.

Trask shook his head and launched himself out the door. He and Brent rounded the corner just in time to see Sammy being grabbed by a tall man and pulled into room 900.

“Who was that?” Brent shouted.

“You don't know the guy?” Trask asked. “It's not Seligman?”

“Seligman's short. Really short.”

Trask held out a hand indicating that Brent should hang back. Then he moved toward the door of 900 and, standing to the side of the room, flailed out an arm and pounded on the door.

“Let the kid out and we can talk.”

No answer.

Trask pounded again. This time his answer was a bullet through the door.

“Nice,” yelled Trask. “But you're not gettin' any money that way. Let the kid out and we can talk about your note.” Trask figured one of Seligman's smarter friends had snatched the pooch from Seligman and tried to turn a profit from the prank.

Before Trask had the chance to knock again, the door opened and something was tossed out. The something turned out to be the body of Seligman. Trask saw Brent, standing a ways off but watching intently. The kid turned pale. So far their joke had cost one life.

“Okay, you got our attention,” Trask shouted.

“Get the money here or the kid and the dog are dead.” The voice was deep and gruff.

“Money's on its way,” Trask lied. “The family wants that dog in one piece or no deal.”

“That cash don't show in a few and the kid is dead along with the dog,” the voice boomed.

Trask said nothing. Instead he looked around for another way into the room. He moved around to the back of the row of rooms. He moved carefully through the brush and trash behind the building until he came upon a window. Probably the bathroom of the seedy room. He hugged the wall until he could glance into the window.

Nothing. If it did lead to the bathroom, it didn't matter. There were bars and dirty screens. Nothing would get in or out of that window. Trask was inclined to walk away and let the whole damned bunch fall through the cracks. But old man Harrigan's money was too good for Trask to give up. He'd have to think of some other way to get get the pooch.

Making his way back to the front of the building, he saw Seligman's body splayed on the grass. Then he saw Brent trying to signal Trask. The kid was waving his arms and making faces. But Trask had no idea what in hell he was trying to say. He held up a hand to indicate that the kid should wait for him but instead Brent made a run for the motel room.

“Sammy!” Brent ran toward the door.

“Get the fuck outta there, kid,” Trask shouted. “Let me handle…”

Brent reached the room and barreled through the door before Trask could finish. He continued creeping closer to the entrance and as he did so, he heard shots, big booming shots, one after another. There was shouting and agonized cries. The shooting stopped. The silence was chilling.

Trask had stationed himself at the corner of the building with a good sightline to the door. Everything was still. No shots, no voices. Nothing.

Then, he watched as a tall lanky man slowly emerged from the room. Looking around, in near-stealth mode, the guy eased himself out the door. He was carrying the dog under one arm and a gun in his hand.

Trask had a clear shot and wasted no time. The man's head exploded when Trask's bullet hit and he fell to the ground still clutching the dog. Trask hurried over to him, kicked away the gun, and snatched the confused pooch before it had a chance to run.

Turning away from the dead man, Trask peered into the room. Sammy lay sprawled over the bed, dead as dead can be, blood everywhere. Brent lay passed out on the floor, a bullet in the arm and one in the leg.

Trask, dog under his arm, pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

“The dog is safe. Tell Harrigan. There's some bad news, too. But I think he'll want to tell Brenda that her dog is safe…. Yeah…. I'll take care of things here…. What?... No need. See you when I drop off the pooch.”

The dog whimpered and licked Trask's hand, which he didn't like one bit.