“Well all the more reason for you to clam up about it,” he warned. “If anybody calls, saying they want a quote.”
“I know nothing.”
“You know nothing.”
“I know the routine by now, honey. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
“Don’t even tell the neighbours.”
“Fine! I won’t.”
“Bye, Mom.”
“I’m sorry about Brewster.”
“Dempsey.”
“Whatever.”
It was true; when Todd gave the subject some serious thought: Merrick Pickett had indeed lost his looks with startling speed. One day he’d been the best looking insurance agent in the city of Cincinnati, the next (it seemed) Danny’s mother wouldn’t look twice at him. Suppose this was hereditary? Suppose fifty percent of it was hereditary?
He called Eppstadt’s office. It took the sonofabitch forty-eight minutes to return the call and when he did his manner was brusque.
“I hope this isn’t about Warrior?”
“It isn’t.”
“We’re not going to do it, Todd.”
“I get it, Gary. Is your assistant listening in on this conversation?”
“No. What do you want?”
“When we had lunch you recommended a guy who’d done some work for a few famous names.”
“Bruce Burrows?”
“How do I get hold of him? He’s not in the book.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll hook you up.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re making a good call, Todd. I hope we can get back in business as soon as you’re healed.”
Once he had the number, Todd didn’t leave himself further room for hesitation. He called Burrows, booked the consultation, and tentatively chatted over some dates for the operation.
There was one of piece outstanding business before he could move on: the disposal of Dempsey’s ashes. Despite the reassurances of Robert Louis Stevenson, Todd did not have any clear idea as to the permanence of any soul, whether animal or human. He only knew that he wanted Dempsey’s mortal remains to be placed where the dog had been most happy. There was no doubt about where that was: the backyard of the Bel Air house, which had been, since his puppyhood, Dempsey’s unchallenged territory: his stalking ground, his schoolyard when it came to learning new tricks. And it was there, the evening before Todd put himself into the hands of Bruce Burrows, that he took the bronzed plastic urn provided by the Cremation Company out into the yard. The urn contained a plastic bag, which in turn contained Dempsey’s ashes. There were a lot of them; but then he’d been a big dog.
Todd sat down in the middle of the yard, where he and Dempsey had so often sat and watched the sky together, and poured some of the ashes into the palm of his hand. What part of this grey sand was his tail, he wondered, and which his snout? Which part the place behind his ear he’d love you forever if you rubbed? Or didn’t it matter? Was that the point about scattering ashes: that in the end they looked the same? Not just the snout and the tail, but a dog’s ashes and a man’s ashes. All reducible, with the addition of a little flame, to this mottled dust? He put his lips to it, once, to kiss him goodbye. In his head he could hear his mother telling him that it was a gross, unhealthy thing to do, so he kissed them again, just to spite her. Then he stood up and cast Dempsey’s ashes around, like a farmer sewing seeds. There was no wind. The ash fell where he threw it, evenly distributed over the mutt’s dominion.
“See you, dog,” he said, and went back into the house to get himself a large bourbon.