Free Strangers by Mort Castle

hard his fingers went numb. “Someone broke Dusty’s neck,” Beth said. “Killed him and left the body in the garbage.”
    “Good lord,” Michael said. “And the kids heard all of this?”
    “Pretty much,” Beth said miserably. “I tried to shoo them away, but Brad was so loud…”
    “Sure,” Michael said. “I understand. It’s awful. It’s just awful for Brad and for the kids and you.” Michael fell silent a moment, then asked, “Did Brad call the police?”
    “Yes,” Beth said. “They came out and took…the dog. They’re investigating, of course.”
    Right, Michael thought. No doubt the local version of Quincy was seeking fingerprints on a deader-than-shit dog this instant.
    Michael dipped his head. “I’d better take a walk,” he said. “See how Zeller’s holding UP.”
    “I knew you’d do that, Michael,” Beth said.
    “Are you okay now, honey ?”
    “Not okay,” Beth answered, “but better. I’ll try to put together some kind of dinner.”
    “Not for me,” Michael said. “My appetite is pretty well gone.”
    Before Michael left the house, he told Beth to put the chain on the door. He’d knock when he returned.
    Beth’s eyes acknowledged the warning and he knew she understood what he wanted her to. Somewhere—outside— perhaps living in this very neighborhood! was a person who killed, a person who killed dogs, who could possibly kill… Why, it might even be someone they knew very well.
    Goddamn, it was funny! Michael Louden, the Stranger, laughed to himself as he went next door to be a “good neighbor.”
     
    ««—»»
     
    I am all alone . Brad Zeller sat in the kitchen thinking that one thought. His hand was wrapped around a nearly empty glass and only three inches remained in the Imperial bottle on the table. But—not to worry—another fifth waited in the cabinet. Sure, it would be a bitch to walk all the way over there the way the floor was pitching and rolling, but then, journey’s end! and he’d reward himself with a drink. And a drink. And a drink. He hoped he might eventually pass out.
    And then, well, tomorrow would be another day…
    Another day of all alone. There was a thought for you. The thought.
    Dusty…
    Dusty. Was. Dead.
    The hurt tore through Brad Zeller all over again. His glass was empty. His hand floated to the bottle’s neck. With slow, drunken precision, he poured without spilling a single drop.
    When the front doorbell rang, Brad struggled to his feet and managed a wide-legged, swaying stance. He staggered from the kitchen. The walls and furniture became handholds and resting points to keep him erect.
    He opened the door. He was not all alone.
    His friend was here.
    “Muh… Michael,” Brad said, working to control lips and tongue.
    The floor thrust up under his heels. He rocked forward.
    Michael quickly stepped in and caught Brad under the arms. “Steady, big fellow,” he said, easing Zeller around. Michael draped Brad’s flopping arms over his shoulder.
    “Sudbody killed Dusty,” Brad mumbled, heavily leaning on Michael. “You hear ‘bout it?”
    “Yes, Brad,” Michael said. “Believe me, I know all about it. Let’s sit your sagging ass down now, all right?”
    “Kitchen,” Zeller insisted. “Got somethin’ to drink in the kitchen.”
    “Right you are,” Michael agreed. “You’re a guy who needs a drink, yessir.”
    In the kitchen, Michael deposited Zeller in a chair at the table. Brad used both hands to pick up the glass. Some whiskey flowed down his chin but most of it went down his throat.
    “Join you for a drinkee, pally,” Michael said. He took a can of Old Milwaukee from the refrigerator and popped the top. He sat down across from Zeller. “Drink up, Brad. That’s the way.”
    Brad’s head lolled from side to side as though he were undergoing a slow motion petit mal seizure. “Dunno who killed my nice dog, Michael. Figure maybe a kid? Figure some teenage punk sonofabitch of a kid?”
    Michael shrugged. “I doubt