Free The Drop by Dennis Lehane Page A

Hard-thin. As if whatever burned inside of him burned so hot that fat couldn’t survive. His blue eyes were so pale they were almost gray. His lanky hair was as blond as the goatee that clung to his lips and chin. Bob recognized him immediately—the kid who’d passed him in the park the other day and said Rocco was a good-looking dog.
    Upon closer inspection, no kid actually. Probably thirty when you got a close look.
    He smiled and stuck out his hand. “Mr. Saginowski?”
    Bob shook the hand. “Yes.”
    “Bob Saginowski?” The man shook Bob’s large hand with his small one, and there was a lot of power in the grip.
    “Yeah.”
    “Eric Deeds, Bob.” The kid let go of his hand. “I believe you have my dog.”
    Bob felt like he’d been slapped across the face with a bag of ice. “What?”
    Eric Deeds hugged himself. “Brrrr. Cold out here, Bob. Not fit for man nor . . . Where is he by the way?”
    He made to go past Bob. Bob stepped in front of him. He sized Bob up, smiled.
    “I bet he’s back there. You keep him in the kitchen? Or down the cellar?”
    Bob said, “What’re you talking about?”
    Eric said, “The dog.”
    Bob said, “Look, you liked my dog in the park the other day, but—”
    Eric said, “He’s not your dog.”
    Bob said, “What? He’s mine.”
    Eric shook his head the way nuns did when they’d caught you dead in your lie. “You got a minute to talk?” He held his index finger up. “Just one minute.”
    IN THE KITCHEN , ERIC Deeds said, “Hey, there he is.” He said, “That’s my guy.” He said, “He got big.” He said, “The size of him.”
    When Bob opened the crate, it broke his heart to see Rocco slink over to Eric Deeds. He even climbed up on his lap when Eric, unbidden, took a seat at Bob’s kitchen table and patted his inner thigh twice. Bob couldn’t even say how it was the guy had talked his way into the house; he was just one of those people had a way about him, like cops and Teamsters—he wanted in, he was coming in.
    “Bob,” Eric Deeds said, “you know a chick name of Nadia Dunn?” He rubbed Rocco’s belly. Bob felt a prick of envy as Rocco kicked his left leg, even though a constant shiver—almost a palsy—ran through his fur.
    “Nadia Dunn?” Bob said.
    “It’s not a I-know-so-many-Nadias-I-get-’em-confused kinda name, man.” Eric Deeds scratched under Rocco’s chin. Rocco’s ears and tail stayed pressed flat to his body. He looked ashamed, his eyes staring down into their own sockets.
    “I know her.” Bob reached out and lifted Rocco off Eric’s lap, plopped him down on his own, scratched behind his ears. “She’s helped me walk Rocco a few times.”
    The act was between them now, Bob lifting the puppy off Eric’s lap without any warning, Eric looking at him for just a second, like, The fuck was that all about? Eric still had a smile on his face, but it wasn’t big anymore, and it wasn’t happy. His forehead narrowed, and it gave his eyes a surprised cast, as if they’d never expected to find themselves on his face. In that moment, he looked cruel, the kind of guy, if he was feeling sorry for himself, took a shit on the whole world.
    “Rocco?” he said.
    Bob nodded as Rocco’s ears unfurled from his head and he licked Bob’s wrist. “That’s his name. What did you call him?”
    “Called him Dog mostly. Sometimes Hound.”
    Eric Deeds looked around the kitchen, up at the old circular fluorescent in the ceiling, something going back to Bob’s mother, hell, Bob’s father around the time the old man had also been obsessed with paneling—paneled the kitchen, the living room, the dining room, would’ve paneled the toilet if he could’ve figured out how.
    “Bob, I’m going to need my dog back.”
    For a second, Bob lost his ability to form words. “He’s mine,” he said eventually.
    Eric shook his head. “You’ve been leasing him from me.” He looked over at the dog in Bob’s arms. “Lease is up.”
    “You beat