…a small spy dog
The Doclopedia #2,343
A California Kid & Spider Story: The Junkyard Job: Part 2
Several hours later, the California Kid was freshly showered and dressed when Mrs. Pham, wife of the apartment manager, rang the bell. In her hands was a covered tray from which delicious smells wafted.
“Here is some dinner for you. Sandy told me that you have been forgetting to eat again. That will not do, my son.”
Hanh Pham was in her mid-forties, and a superb cook. She was also the owner and operator of “Pham’s,” a popular restaurant next door to the apartment building. Since the Kid, then a Lieutenant in the Navy, had helped her, her husband, and their three small children escape from the combination of Communists and plague that was ravaging her homeland, she had looked upon him as a son, up to nagging him to eat and “keep proper hours”.
“Little Mother,” he said as he took the tray from her, “you take good care of me. I thank you. Now, how is Sandy doing with her extra lessons?”
Hanh smiled. “She does very well. She says you write them up in both an amusing and informative way. You should be a teacher.”
The Kid laughed at that. “Little Mother, as a teacher, I would be a good businessman. That reminds me, I’ll be out of town again for a few days, so you can tell Mrs. Velez that she can come clean up the place. Sandy can take care of my zoo. I know she loves that.”
Again, Hanh smiled. Her eldest child did love animals, and the Kid had two cats, two rabbits, a parrot named Smaug, and a dog of very mixed ancestry. They were one of the reasons the large apartment had no carpeting, only tile floors.
“I will tell them. Now eat. Everything.” She gave the Kid the “mom look”, then left.
The California Kid, always the good son, closed the door behind her, then set to eating as he looked through his mail.
Across town, Spider had popped the top on a beer and was on the phone with an old friend who dealt in trained animals.
“That’s right, Lena, I need three young greyhound bitches in heat, or at least smelling like they’re in heat. Let’s say three days. How much?”
Spider’s apartment was small, neat, and without any pets except Boris, his Goliath birdeater tarantula. Spider had gotten him as a pet when he was a teenager of 14. Now, 12 years and one ex-wife later, they were still roommates.
At the moment, Boris was finishing off a dinner of mouse, while Spider was eating cold pizza and chocolate milk. The television was turned on to the news, but the sound was off. On the table in front of Spider were several photos of the junkyard, as well as written information that Smooth Paul had typed up, said intel coming directly from the 21 year old niece of Henry Evans.
On the phone, Lena quoted a reasonable price for dog rental, with a rather steep amount to be paid if anything happened to them. Spider assured her that they would be in fine shape when he returned them, then told her he would pick them up in three days.
His next call was short and sweet.
“We are go with the hounds, Pie. Have the truck rigged up by Thursday morning for a dry run.”
After hanging up the phone, Spider grabbed another slice of cold pizza and turned up the sound on the TV. A piece ran about the FBI investigation into the daring robbery at Senator Jervison’s big fundraising party last month. The agent in charge said they had several new leads and some possible suspects. Spider nearly choked on his mouthful of pizza.
“Oh sure you do, Agent Clueless. I know, because I left some of those clues. Good luck with them.”
Back at the Kid’s rooftop apartment, which he owned along with the rest of the building and the bookstore next door, he had watched the same news show. The clues they had left had the FBI going in at least four different directions, all leading to dead ends. There was nothing to worry about, except which art dealer to whom to sell the items they had taken along with $400,000.00 in campaign cash. He was leaning towards the Ennis Gallery in Miami. They were very trustworthy, paid top dollar, and got the goods out of the country fast.
The Kid did note that once again, the name “Red Feather Gang”, while used within the FBI to refer to them, was not mentioned to the media at all. This pleased him in regard to how tight a lid Agent King was managing to keep on the case, but did bother him a bit that his hardworking crew would not get any recognition.
Finishing up his dinner of perfectly baked fish, rice, vegetables, and a dry martini, the Kid walked over and stretched out on the sofa not occupied by cats, dogs, and rabbits. While not as mentally engaging as the hot job at the Senator’s house, this junkyard job was not without it’s merits. He would think about it for awhile.
In the meantime, he would pet the cat that had just jumped onto his stomach.
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