Free Abnormal Occurrences by Thomas Berger Page B

mincing gait, but of course not to run.
    I took the fox terrier downtown and booked him on a charge of procuring. So why did Blondie finger him? Here’s my theory: either she had switched to a rival pimp or, as I first suspected, she was working undercover for another law-enforcement agency and wanted to get rid of me before she was compromised. I suppose it doesn’t matter.
    As for the dog, he was subsequently sentenced to six months in the animal correctional facility in the borough of Richmond, the other name only bureaucrats use for Staten Island. On appeal, that was reduced to three months of community service, with him wearing an electronic monitoring bracelet on his left rear foot. A slap on the paw! Don’t kid yourself, by now that pooch is back at work. But I have no regrets about doing my job. And I owe one to Fogarty.
The Pelican Felonies
    S OME CITIZENS CONFUSE US with the ASPCA or a veterinary service, or even with the Department of Sanitation. Fogarty shows a short fuse to people who call complaining about horse droppings in their block. “Put ’em in your window boxes!” he shouts, and hurls the phone down.
    We also get complaints about dog bites, bee stings, and anything connected with pigeons. And of course if somebody’s pet alligator is missing, it is routine for us to get the squeal.
    But as it happens none of these things are our affair.
    “Then just what is it that you do?” peevishly inquired the old lady to whom I had just tried to explain that we could not look for her missing parakeet—unless, of course, there was good reason to believe it had broken the law.
    “You see, ma’am,” I said, “a lot of folks are reluctant to admit that crimes committed by animals are on the rise, while human crime rates are falling, and our squad is first to take any budget cuts. But the problem isn’t likely to go away by itself.”
    The old lady blurted an obscene remark and hung up violently. Across the desk, Fogarty smirked in sympathy.
    He moaned, “Oh, if they only understood!”
    “That’s asking for the moon, Fogarty,” I barked. “Meanwhile we can’t lollygag around here; there’s work to be done.” I stood up, propelling my swivel chair backward with a thrust of my calves, went downstairs, and hit the street.
    Prevention is, or should be, part of our job, and I try to get out there where it’s happening before it happens. By golly, I had hardly gone three blocks when I spotted him, between the cleaner’s and the deli, in the doorway of electronics shop that had just opened under a going-out-of-business banner: a big French poodle, recently clipped by the look of him, and wearing a trench coat with the belt tied, not buckled. I admit I have a bias against any animal who affects that style, even if he doesn’t accompany it with the usual wide-brimmed fedora.
    I felt certain it was only a matter of moments before he made his move, and sure enough, a nice-looking, well-dressed woman, say in her early forties, came out of the cleaner’s, glanced at the dog for an instant, and then quickly averted her face. Frenchy had whipped open his coat, and you guessed it: he wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
    I closed in on him, but the wily devil saw me coming, and his legs proved a lot more nimble than mine. Suffice it to say he was gone before I reached his doorway. But I’ll know him when I see him next time.
    Well, a day that had started off so briskly then settled down to three-four hours of inconsequence. I left a lot of shoe leather on city sidewalks. I ate a frank, hold the sauerkraut, coffee with everything. The acid in the last-named got to me, or maybe the milk was sour, and I went into a discount drugstore to look for relief. Having to make a choice among the various antacids made my indigestion worse. While I was studying the shelves, along came a big husky pelican, who apparently suffered from the same complaint as mine, for he too began to examine the medications for