Free Abnormal Occurrences by Thomas Berger Page A

with.”
    “Take a look at my photo ID.” I put it under her button nose, and she squinted at it.
    “Okay,” she said stoically. “So you expect a freebie.”
    “You wouldn’t know of a dog who operates an answering service?”
    “What if I do?” She reared back and put her hand on her hip.
    “Don’t get cute with me, baby. There’s a loitering law in this town.”
    “I might know of such a party,” said she. “You want to sign up for this service, is that it?”
    “I’ll say this, Blondie, you’ve got as much chutzpah as anyone I ever met.”
    “Listen, you got to survive.”
    I gave her a bill that was tightly rolled into a cylinder the size of a cigarette. “Pick your teeth on that,” I said, hoping to give the impression it was a larger denomination than the fiver it was.
    “Okay, buster,” said she. “You bought yourself some information. I don’t know the dog personally, but I’ve left a message or two with him—on his machine, that is. He never says a word.”
    “It may be misrepresentation,” I said sternly. “What about you, miss: think he handles the business properly, or do you think subscribers might be getting scammed?”
    She leered at me. “For God’s sake, can’t you find something better to do? There are vicious criminals all around town and you spend your time harassing businessdogs?”
    Her attack drew blood. “All we’re trying to do is protect the public, young lady. It might be nice if we got some cooperation and not this incessant criticism.”
    She turned contrite. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, officer. You can find that pooch in apartment fifteen twenty-six, in that building right over there, with the striped canopy.” She pointed down the block.
    I lost no time in going there. I took the elevator to the 15th floor, found the door marked 1526, backed up and prepared to run at it with the battering ram of my shoulder but prudently changed my mind and instead tried the knob, which turned easily. An unlocked door in Manhattan? I didn’t like the bravado it implied, but I went on in anyhow.
    I found myself in the typical entrance hall of a contemporary apartment. A mirror hung on one wall and underneath it stood a little table on which a week’s junk mail had accumulated. I drew my service weapon and stealthily approached the closed door at the end of a characterless hallway, passing on my right a living room full of what looked like Ikea furniture arranged around a bright-blue rug in an Oriental figure. It smacked of a dog’s taste.
    I put my ear against the door. Not a sound came from within. I turned the knob and hurled myself into the room.
    There he was: a white fox terrier with one black patch across his face and another as back saddle. His beady eyes flickered negligently over me for a second, and then he turned back to his work.
    The animal wore a headset. The left earphone was slightly askew, but the other was well seated, a pointed ear rising above it. A recording device sat on the desk before him. Even as I watched, the phone rang, the machine kicked in, and the dog barked sharply into the little mike that a U-shaped wire brought alongside but not quite to the end of his pointed snout.
    I had to admit that this quick inspection found nothing that was not kosher. What could I do if I couldn’t name any obvious violations?
    “Okay, bud,” I told the animal, “you might look clean as a whistle right now, but just remember we got our eye on you. We get any more complaints and—” Had I not gotten a bright idea at that point, this character might have escaped being brought to justice for years.
    On an impulse, more curiosity than suspicion, I decided to listen to the kind of messages people left with the dog. I moved him aside to get access to the machine and hit the playback button. It wasn’t long before I went for the two pair of pawcuffs looped over my belt in the small of my back. These manacles permit a prisoner to walk slowly, at a