Free This Dog for Hire by Carol Lea Benjamin Page B

check.”
    Beep.
    â€œBaby, it’s Amy Fisher. I was wondering if you could recommend a good auto body mechanic. I need to get my dents pounded out. Oooo. Call me, honey.”
    â€œOh, dear. CLIFFORD, IT’S MOTHER.”
    Beep.
    â€œOsso buco tonight, you delicious thing. See you at seven, honey.” It was the same voice as the Imelda Marcos and Amy Fisher calls. Louis?
    Beep.
    â€œCliff, it’s Dennis. Are you there? Cliff, pick up, damn it. Oh, shit.”
    Beep.
    â€œCliff, it’s Mike. I can’t take Magritte today. Sorry. Give me a call.”
    Beep.
    â€œThis is for Robert Sutherland. I’m at the Marriott, Bob. I’ll be here through Monday. Oh, it’s Stanley Salkin of Power Crest. Give me a call.”
    Beep.
    These were among my favorites, wrong-number messages.
    I’ve always wondered if I were morally obliged to call the people and tell them they didn’t get who they thought they got. But I never did. I figure living with the consequences of your mistakes is part of being a grown-up.
    â€œThis is Margaret at Dr. Sobel’s office. You have an appointment tomorrow at two. See you then. Have a good day, and don’t forget to floss.”
    Beep.
    â€œCliff, it’s Mike again. Are you there? Shit. Either you’re fucking your brains out, or someone died. Jesus—I hope you’re fucking your brains out. Okay—I can get him at four. Unless I hear from you.”
    Beep
    When I woke up, I was still holding the tape recorder, but the tape had run all the way to the end.
    I had dreamed I found Billy Pittsburgh and that he told me he had written down the license number of the car that had hit Clifford Cole, it should only happen.
    But now that I was awake, I couldn’t remember what it was.

11
    Last Seen Flying West
    The Friday Times had a large ad for the Cahill Gallery opening of Clifford Cole’s work, white letters on a black field. Very dignified.
    â€œA visual chronicle of the alienation of the nineties.” Where do they get this bullshit?
    I turned to the obits. Since I didn’t find my name listed, I figured I better get my ass to work. I climbed onto the exercise bike, called Dash, and told him to find a ball. When he did, I tossed it out the door of the office, where it bounced off the wall and went noisily down the uncarpeted stairs to the living room, Dashiell in hot pursuit. Even after ten throws, there he was, eyes ablaze, ready to do it all over again.
    I have days like that. Sisyphus minus the rock, but getting nowhere all the same. I was afraid today would be one of them. Nevertheless, by ten to eight, we were ready to begin another search for Billy Pittsburgh.
    There was more of a chance he’d be in situ, asleep, if we hit the streets early, but then I might be waking up a lot of homeless men trying to find him. We headed for West Street, across from the waterfront, checking doorways and loading ramps, heat vents, alleys, any place where a person without a home might find some protection from the weather, which at this time of year was fierce.
    It occurred to me that the only thing I knew about Billy was that he was black, but even if I had decided to let the Asian and Caucasian homeless men stay asleep, you couldn’t tell who or what was under any particular pile of rags or which packing box was trash and which was someone’s cardboard condo.
    With the exception of an auto body shop, nothing was open yet on West Street. And I couldn’t figure out where Billy might be, because the street got the full brunt of the wind off the Hudson. We turned up Christopher and found one crusty guy with a blanket draped around him holding out a paper cup from one of the ubiquitous Greek coffee shops, hoping for a handout. He was Caucasian, under a lot of crud. I dug into my pocket and pulled out a handful of change. Dropping it into the cup, I asked him if he knew Billy Pittsburgh.
    â€œNot here,” he said,