“I’ve shot dogs,” he hissed at Desie, “for a lot less than this.”
“He thinks we’re playing.”
“You mean he’s pulled this shit before? While you were screwing?”
“To him it’s wrestling. He hates to be left out.” The combined weight and aromas of the two animals, the Lab and Mr. Gash, made it difficult for Desie to speak up.
“Who taught him how to open a car door?” Mr. Gash said snidely.
“I dunno. That’s a new one.”
“Make him get off! He weighs a fucking ton.”
Weakly, Desie said, “McGuinn, down!”
The dog held its position. They heard a tail flopping mirthfully against the upholstery.
“Jesus, he’s drooling all over me!” Mr. Gash cried.
Desie saw a strand of slobber glistening from one of his earlobes. He swung the gun away from her neck and reached it behind his own head, so the barrel was jammed to the Labrador’s jaw.
“Big mistake,” said Desie.
“What?” The dumb mutt had to die—first, because he had interrupted Mr. Gash’s strenuous efforts to achieve an erection; second, because he had fouled Mr. Gash’s hair with spit.
“You have any idea,” Desie said, “how hard that dog’s head is?”
“What’re you saying, Mrs. Stoat? This is a forty-five-caliber handgun.”
“I’m saying his noggin is like a cinder block. The bullet could bounce off him and wind up in you or me. It’s something to think about, that’s all.”
Mr. Gash did think about it. She had a point. The beast was glommed to his very spine, after all. Plus, it would be a blind shot, backhanded over the shoulder. Very risky.
“Shit,” said Mr. Gash. The evening was not playing out as he had hoped. “How long does he usually hang on?”
“Till he gets bored. Or hungry.” Desie felt suffocated and claustrophobic.
“He farts again, I’m definitely pulling the trigger.”
“Tell that to him,” she muttered at Mr. Gash, “not me.”
Twilly Spree was on all fours in the slop, peering up into the backseat through the open door. In the greenish glow of the dome light he saw Desirata Stoat and her dog, with Mr. Gash sandwiched obscenely between them. None of them could see Twilly, who listened only briefly to the taut conversation before scooting like a water bug underneath the Roadmaster.
He thought: Crazy damn dog, he’ll get her killed.
It wouldn’t take much for Mr. Gash to blow a gasket and start shooting. The challenge was to get McGuinn off the killer, then somehow get the killer off Desie.
“Let go a me, you dumb bastard! Let go a me!” The rising fury of Mr. Gash.
Twilly licked his lips and tried to whistle. Nothing came out—he was trembling too much from the damp cold.
He heard Desie cry out: “What’re you doing!”
Then Mr. Gash: “Making do.”
The car began rocking again. Twilly vigorously rubbed the clamminess from his cheeks. He was striving for a specific two-note whistle; the whistle used to summon McGuinn for supper. Twilly puckered and blew. This time it worked.
The station wagon stopped shaking. There was a shout, a splash, an inquisitive bark. The dog had let go of the killer and was out of the car, hunting for the source of the dinner call. Twilly could track McGuinn’s pacing by the tinkling of his collar. It was only a matter of moments before the ever-hungry Lab sniffed out Twilly’s hiding place.
“Who made that noise!” Mr. Gash bellowed from the backseat.
“What noise?” came Desie’s voice. “That bird, you mean.”
“It was no goddamned bird.”
Twilly whistled again, this time with a whimsical lilt. He saw McGuinn’s legs stiffen—all senses on full alert. The dog was zeroing in.
Not yet, Twilly thought, please. He heard more movement above him: Mr. Gash, scrambling from the station wagon.
“That’s it,” the killer was saying, “somebody’s out there. Some asshole troublemaker.”
Twilly sucked in his breath as McGuinn’s twitching snout appeared below the rear bumper. The dog began to whine and scratch at the ground. No! Twilly thought. Stay!
Finally, the two pale feet Twilly was awaiting emerged from the car and descended into view. They disappeared into the mud as the killer stood up.