A Breath of Dead Air (The Mysteries of Bell & Whitehouse Book 8) (19 page)

D
ogs are
, to their owners, not all that different from other species of animals to a zookeeper: they’re nice to look at, provide the requisite company, but cost you an arm and a leg in biscuits and bones and whatever else it is a dog eats. Yvonne Assenheimer eyed the mongrel chewing on a sad-looking bone askance. She didn’t much care for dogs. Especially ones as mangy as this one, giving her the evil eye.

“I’m not going to steal your bone, you silly mutt. Relax already, will you?”

She gave the dumpster the dog seemed to consider its very own personal property a shove, positioning it for collection.

“Trouble, hon?” said her friend Izzy Superczyński, lazily leaning from the truck window.

“Just a dog is all. These streets are infested with them.”

“Mind he doesn’t bite you. I’ve heard that rabies is a very serious thing.”

“I’ll kick him before he so much as opens his maw.”

Izzy frowned. “Maw? Are you sure that’s a word?”

She disappeared from view, and Yvonne knew she was filling out another crossword puzzle. Izzy was always starting crossword puzzles but unfortunately lacked the wherewithal to finish them.

“Three letters. Don’t bring it to a knife fight. Starts with a G,” she heard Izzy murmur. “Mh. No. Maw doesn’t start with a G, does it? Dang.”

Yvonne emitted a fruity chuckle. Ever since watching a movie where the guy invariably got clues from his next of kin as to the crossword puzzle he was working on, Izzy believed that one day something similar might happen to her. She believed in the power of the universe coming through for her, but so far it seemed determined to let her down.

Yvonne gave a holler, and Izzy fired up the front loader on the E-Z Pack truck. The blades extended, and hooked into the dumpster’s side hooks, then slowly started hoisting it up. Up and over the truck cabin the metal monstrosity went, then the powerful hydraulics tipped the dumpster over the truck’s interior, and deposited the trash into the belly of the beast with a dull clunking sound.

“Gut? Gum? Gnu?” murmured Izzy from inside the truck’s cabin. Finally, she heaved a deep sigh. “I give up.”

“I think it’s Gnu,” hollered Yvonne over the noise. She was still eyeing the dog wearily. “That’s a kind of dog, right?”

Izzy gave this some thought. “I’m pretty sure it is,” she opined.

“See?” Yvonne patiently waited for the empty dumpster to be released by the vehicle.

“One of those big ones, right? Attack dogs?“

“Think so!” Yvonne hollered back.

“Oh no!”

“What?”

“Next word. Seven letters. Chocolate sandwich spread starting with N. Gnu won’t do!”

“Mh. Tough luck.” Yvonne knelt down next to the mangy dog. The mongrel snarled and lifted its upper lip, baring its teeth.

“Don’t worry, beast. I won’t take your bone,” assured Yvonne. She eyed the scrawny canine and shook her head. “No meat,” she muttered. “No meat at all on your carcass is there, dog?”

In response, the dog merely gave her an extra loud snarl.

“Gotcha,” said Yvonne, rising to her feet. She smiled and returned to the idling truck. Yanking open the passenger door, she hauled her bulk into the passenger seat. Time for a break and a snack. Had to keep that body fed. Yvonne was a big girl. So big, in fact, that Izzy could have easily fit twice inside the coveralls she liked to wear. It was but one of many differences between the two best friends and co-workers.

Where Yvonne was loud-mouthed and grumpy, Izzy was soft-spoken and perennially happy. And where Yvonne usually saw the worst in people, Izzy saw the best. The only thing the two had in common, apart from their blond hair, was their unique outlook on life, which probably stemmed from the fact that they weren’t the brightest tools in the shed of God’s big house.

Nevertheless, they had found gainful employment as proud members of the DSNY, New York City’s sanitation department, and were out there on the street every day to rid New York’s citizenry of its annual 3.8 millions tons of trash, often before the crack of dawn.

“Ready?” said Izzy with a frown at her puzzle.

“Yup. Hit me.”

Automatically, Izzy reached for the big red thermos and poured her friend a steaming mug of java, then handed her a big, bulky paper bag.

Dipping into the bag with relish, Yvonne extracted the first of several donuts, dunked it into the coffee mug, and shoved the whole thing into her… maw.

Chewing delightedly, she said, “Isn’t this the best job in the world, Iz?”

“Well, I can’t really give a definite answer to that one,” responded Izzy with one eyebrow cocked. “As I haven’t yet sampled all the different jobs out there.”

“Still,” said Yvonne with a contented sigh as she leaned back in her chair.

“Still,” agreed Izzy, placing the crossword puzzle on the dashboard and helping herself to a donut. “It is kinda great to be able to see the city and get paid to do it.”

“To be able to work out without having to pay for a gym.”

“And to meet such interesting people.”

Yvonne looked up and followed Izzy’s gaze. Staring into the passenger window, a very irate man stood shaking his fists at her, his face puce with rage and shouting words of a very unfriendly nature.

“Damn you!” was one of the more printable expressions he used. “You just killed my partner, you stupid—”

In response, Yvonne shoved open her door and hit the man in the face with such force, he momentarily disappeared from sight.

“I didn’t get that last part!” she yelled.

When no answer came, she reluctantly left her steaming mug of coffee and the second and third donut she’d marked for her own, and descended from the vehicle.

Sprawled on the alley floor before her, lay the most handsome man she’d ever seen. His face, apart from the bloody nose, sported classic features, and could have easily contended with the matinée idols of a bygone era. He was of strong build, with thick, curly black hair, and if he hadn’t been lying in a puddle, his costume could have been called impeccable.

“Um, buddy?” she called out, giving his feet a tentative kick. “Are you all right?”

Izzy, joining her, stood gazing at the stranger with a wistful expression in her eyes. “Wow. You don’t see a lot of his kind in our line of business.”

The mangy dog, curious to discover yet another intruder on his turf, gave the man a tentative sniff, then sank back on its haunches and broke into a soft wailing sound.

“I think it’s
his
dog,” said Izzy. “Only dogs can mourn the death of their owner like that. Remember that Richard Gere movie?”

Yvonne hit her palm with her fist. “That’s who he reminds me of!” She stepped a little closer to examine the man’s injured features. “He’s the spitting image of Richard Gere!”

Izzy looked doubtful. “Mh. With that nose? Hardly, V.”

Yvonne wiped some of the man’s blood off his face with a nearby rag. His nose was swollen from the unexpected collision with the E-Z Pack’s sturdy door. “Just picture him without the big nose, and I’m telling you, he could be a younger version of Richard Gere.”

Izzy narrowed her gaze, assessing the man carefully. “You could be right,” she finally admitted.

Suddenly, the man stirred and let out a confused groan. Yvonne, still wiping the dirty rag across his features, dipped the piece of cloth into the puddle, and sloshed some water on his face.

The yucky water did little to increase the man’s good looks, but it did appear to aid in his return from the dead.

“Huh!” he cried out, wiping some of the muddy water from his eyes. Then, realizing where he was, his eyes went wide and a little wild. Jerking up, he yelled, “Get back! Get away from me!”

Glad her ministrations hit the spot, Yvonne threw down the rag. “Easy, buddy. Just trying to help.”

“You!” the man cried out, his face once again taking on a darker shade of scarlet. He pointed his finger in an accusing fashion from Yvonne to Izzy, apparently unsure where to place the blame for his predicament. “You!”

Yvonne raised her eyebrows. “You?”

“You! You!”

“I think he means you, V.”

“Just spit it out, buddy. Don’t hold back.”

“You killed my partner and now you’re trying to kill me!”

Izzy sighed. “He’s repeating himself. I think it’s brain damage.”

“Pity,” murmured Yvonne as she watched the man scramble to his feet. Now that animation had returned to his face, she saw she hadn’t been mistaken. He was handsome as hell, even with those weird black smudges and that bloody nose. “You should have that looked after, mister,” she said, pointing to his nose.

The man blinked and waved his hands about him wildly.

“Mad. Clearly stark-raving mad,” murmured Izzy.

Then the man dipped into his pocket and came out with—in that order—a gun, a badge of some kind, and a Twinkie. He dropped the gun, grabbed the Twinkie in his right hand and pointed it at Yvonne, holding out the badge with his left.

“Federal agent! You’re under arrest!”

“I think he’s nuts.”

“I think he’s cute.” Yvonne grabbed the Twinkie from the man’s hand and started to peel back the wrapper. “Thanks, buddy,” she said as she took a bite. “That hits the spot.”

After having interrupted her early morning snack, she thought it was awfully nice of the man to hand her a little something to eat.

“Now do you want us to call you an ambulance or something?”

The man’s eyes rolled from left to right and from right to left, and the next moment he was on the ground again, frantically scrabbling about on all fours.

Yvonne and Izzy exchanged knowing glances. Completely bonkers, the look said. Even the dog, who’d been watching the scene with aloof detachment, now moved back a little.

Finally, the man sprang up from the ground into a crouch, his face triumphant. “A-ha!” he boomed. “Now I’ve got you!”

And like a magician pulling a rabbit from his costume, he suddenly leveled a gun at Yvonne.

She stared at it dispassionately. A gun? First he gave her a Twinkie and now a gun? She didn’t know what to think of this fellow.

“Gun!” yelled Izzy, her face displaying a wide grin. And before the man could react, she’d ran back to the truck and dove inside the cabin. “Don’t bring it to a knife fight. Three letters. Starts with a G! Gun!”

And with a proud smile, she brought out her crossword puzzle, and proceeded to write the three letters into their designated spot.

“Good one, Iz,” commented Yvonne.

“Thanks!”

“Hands up! That goes for the both of you!” yelled the man, clearly unimpressed by Izzy’s crossword puzzle prowess.

Yvonne and Izzy once again exchanged a knowing glance, and when the dog belted out a piercing whine, it was obvious to all present that here stood a man with serious mental issues.

“You don’t want to point that thing at people,” said Yvonne, stating the obvious. “You could hurt someone, you know.”

Exasperated, the man stammered, “For the love of God, will you or will you not put up your hands?”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not,” said Izzy, holding out her crossword puzzle book. “Now that I’ve got ‘Gun’, I think I can crack this thing wide open. And V here has a sore shoulder, don’t you, V?”

“Yep,” said Yvonne, rubbing her left shoulder. “Been troubling me for a while now. You wouldn’t happen to know a massage therapist, would you?”

Without warning, the man fired a shot into the air. “Warning shot!” he hollered. “Now put em up!”

Reluctantly, both women held up their hands.

“And to think I thought you were cute,” grumbled Yvonne.

“We don’t keep any money in the truck. Only garbage,” squeaked Izzy.

“Why?” cried the man, waving his gun.

Izzy shrugged. “Because it’s a garbage truck?”

“Why did you have to kill my partner?”

Yvonne frowned. She didn’t like this. “This partner of yours, she’s probably really pretty, huh? Like really hot?”

“I bet she’s a supermodel. I bet she’s supermodel hot.”

“She’s not a model!” yelled the man. “She’s not even a she!”

Tentatively, Yvonne lowered her left arm. Her shoulder was starting to get sore. “You lost me there, buddy. She’s not a she. So then, erm…”

Izzy furrowed her brow, also processing this information. “That means she must be a he, right?”

“Or an it?”

Just then, a soft tapping sound could be heard, coming from somewhere behind Yvonne. She whirled around, half expecting another crazy person joining the party. The only sight that met her eyes, though, was that good old garbage truck.

She gestured with her head at the apparent source of the tapping sound. “Did you hear that?”

Izzy shrugged. “Probably a rat.”

The sound of the tapping had a strange effect on the mysterious gun-wielding man. His eyes lit up, and he suddenly became animated. “Open that! Open the truck!”

Yvonne held up her hand. “Sorry. Not allowed. It’s a garbage truck. If we open it, garbage will come out.”

“Yes. Garbage should go in. Not out. It says so right there in the manual.”

“Get him out of there!” hollered the man.

With a deep sigh, Yvonne walked over to the instrument panel located at the back of the truck. She hated to break the rules, but when crazy people start waving guns around, options dwindle. “I still think it’s wrong.”

“Open it!”

She punched the button to open the truck’s back panel. As it slowly released its hold on its contents, she half expected the rat Izzy had mentioned to jump out at her, so she stepped back. To her surprise, no rats emerged, but a skinny little man in a rumpled suit did.

“You stupid woman!” he squeaked the moment he laid eyes on Yvonne.

In a reflex action, she hauled off and punched the impudent fellow in the face. His head snapped back, and he fell down on a bed of garbage.

“Frank!” cried the crazy man with the gun, and launched himself at Yvonne.

Before he had the chance to come anywhere near her, she’d raised her right hand, and smacked him in the face. And even though she was careful to avoid his damaged nose, he still howled with pain the moment her fist connected.