Free Hound Dog & Bean by B.G. Thomas Page A

company while I use the kitchen?” H.D. asked Poindexter. “I got some stuff to prepare.”
    “Look,” Bean said. “You’ve done enough, really.”
    “You might as well give up,” H.D. replied. “Once I make up my mind, it’s made up. Kitchen?”
    Bean made a move to rise from the chair, and H.D. placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and pushed him back down. “Point. I can find it.”
    Bean sighed resignedly and pointed.
    H.D. headed back through a large archway, past the dining room, and into a small but nicely arranged kitchen. There wasn’t a lot of counter space, but what there was lined one wall with another large window over it. It was one of those glass, attachable bay windows that stuck out from the house with shelves for plants. Bay window? Was that what it was called? H.D. shrugged to himself. It didn’t matter.
    There were lots of cabinets and drawers, and it took H.D. a moment to find what he was looking for, but he was determined Bean not get up and help him.
    Bean. What a nickname. It made sense, of course, what with the man owning a coffee shop, but it made H.D. wonder what the man’s real name was. Not that he had any business wondering. There was no way in the nine circles of hell he was telling the man his own real name was Hillary Dameron (and what had possessed his mom to name him Hillary?). Of course, his rules didn’t apply for anyone but him, and he made note to try to find the answer to the little mystery.
    He took the papayas out of the shopping bag, peeled and then sliced one, and mashed the other in a small bowl with a big wooden spoon. He put the pulp in a Tupperware container and placed all of the fruit—sliced and mashed—in the old refrigerator. That’s when he noticed the photograph of the corgi—official dog of the Queen of England—affixed to the door with a ladybug magnet. It took him a moment to recognize the man who was both holding and being licked by the white-and-tan dog. It was Bean. A Bean with hair and the trimmest of goatees. Hmmmm . Bean had a dog? H.D. hadn’t seen one, and surely the critter would have met them all at the door. That’s what dogs did.
    Shit.
    Bean wasn’t one of those people who left a poor animal in the backyard all day, was he? That’s what had started the problem with Brubaker in the first place, which in turn led to Bean getting punched.
    H.D. peeked out the big window over the sink—after pushing aside an assortment of African violets and aloe—and perused the backyard.
    He didn’t see a dog.
    He did see a kitchen door in the corner of the room, and next to it was a dog bed leaning up against a wall. With a glance over his shoulder to make sure no one was coming, he opened the door quietly and looked out the back. Again, no dog in sight. The yard was rectangular, with trees along the fence—redbuds maybe?—that provided a lot of privacy and a little pond, along with a boy-peeing-water fountain. He couldn’t help but laugh.
    Then he remembered the nosy thing he was doing and made some quick kissing sounds before Poindexter or Bean came back to see what was keeping him. It was a noise that always attracted dogs.
    Again, nothing.
    He breathed a sigh of relief.
    There was no dog stuck outside all day in the backyard.
    H.D. carefully and silently closed the door, then headed back to the refrigerator. He knew he needed to finish what he was supposed to be doing, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to know what was going on with the corgi.
    He pulled the photograph off the refrigerator door and turned it over. Sure enough¸ something was written there. Just one word: “Moses.” Moses? Interesting. Especially since he’d once had a beautiful little Sheltie named Ramses. Synchronicity. Or something anyway. Ezzie would have read all kinds of shit into that.
    “You okay back here?”
    H.D. started so badly he nearly dropped the picture, and he scrambled to get it back on the fridge door just as Poindexter walked in.
    “What’re you