The Best of Joe R. Lansdale Read online

  “Try on the suit, let’s see if it needs tailoring.”

  The suit fit perfectly, though Jim did feel a bit exposed. Still, he had to admit there was something refreshing about the exposure. He wore the suit into the break room, following the Chief.

  Rex, the current fire dog, was sprawled on the couch watching a cop show. His suit looked worn, even a bit smoke stained. He was tired around the eyes. His jowls drooped.

  “This is our new fire dog,” the Chief said.

  Rex turned and looked at Jim, said, “I’m not out the door, already you got a guy in the suit?”

  “Rex, no hard feelings. You got what, two, three days? We got to be ready. You know that.”

  Rex sat up on the couch, adjusted some pillows and leaned into them. “Yeah, I know. But, I’ve had this job nine years.”

  “And in dog years that’s a lot.”

  “I don’t know why I can’t just keep being the fire dog. I think I’ve done a good job.”

  “You’re our best fire dog yet. Jim here has a lot to live up to.”

  “I only get to work nine years?” Jim said.

  “In dog years you’d be pretty old, and it’s a decent retirement.”

  “Is he gonna take my name too?” Rex said.

  “No,” the Chief said, “of course not. We’ll call him Spot.”

  “Oh, that’s rich,” said Rex. “You really worked on that one.”

  “It’s no worse than Rex.”

  “Hey, Rex is a good name.”

  “I don’t like Spot,” Jim said. “Can’t I come up with something else?”

  “Dogs don’t name themselves,” the Chief said. “Your name is Spot.”

  “Spot,” Rex said, “don’t you think you ought to get started by coming over here and sniffing my butt?”

  The first few days at work Spot found riding on the truck to be uncomfortable. He was always given a tool box to sit on so that he could be seen, as this was the fire department’s way. They liked the idea of the fire dog in full view, his ears flapping in the wind. It was very promotional for the mascot to be seen.

  Spot’s exposed butt was cold on the tool box, and the wind not only blew his ears around, it moved another part of his anatomy about. That was annoying.

  He did, however, enjoy the little motorized tail-wagging device he activated with a touch of a finger. He found that got him a lot of snacks from the fire men. He was especially fond of the liver snacks.

  After three weeks on the job, Spot found his wife Shella to be very friendly. After dinner one evening, when he went to the bedroom to remove his dog suit, he discovered Shella lying on their bed wearing a negligee and a pair of dog ears attached to a hair band.

  “Feel frisky, Spot?”

  “Jim.”

  “Whatever. Feel frisky?”

  “Well, yeah. Let me shed the suit, take a shower…”

  “You don’t need a shower… And baby, leave the suit on, will you?”

  They went at it.

  “You know how I want it,” she said.

  “Yeah. Doggie style.”

  “Good boy.”

  After sex, Shella liked to scratch his belly and behind his ears. He used the tail-wagging device to show how much he appreciated it. This wasn’t so bad, he thought. He got less when he was a man.

  Though his sex life had improved, Spot found himself being put outside a lot, having to relieve himself in a corner of the yard while his wife looked in the other direction, her hand in a plastic bag, ready to use to pick up his deposits.

  He only removed his dog suit now when Shella wasn’t around. She liked it on him at all times. At first he was insulted, but the sex was so good, and his life was so good, he relented. He even let her call him Spot all the time.

  When she wasn’t around, he washed and dried his suit carefully, ironed it. But he never wore anything else. When he rode the bus to work, everyone wanted to pet him. One woman even asked if he liked poodles because she had one.

  At work he was well respected, and enjoyed being taken to schools with the Fire Chief. The Chief talked about fire prevention. Spot wagged his tail, sat up, barked, looked cute by turning his head from side to side.

  He was even taken to his daughter’s class once. He heard her say proudly to a kid sitting next to her, “That’s my Daddy. He’s the fire dog.”

  His chest swelled with pride. He made his tail wag enthusiastically.

  The job really was the pip. You didn’t have fires every day, so Spot laid around all day most days, on the couch sometimes, though some of the fireman would run him off and make him lie on the floor when they came in. But the floor had rugs on it and the television was always on, though he was not allowed to change the channels. Some kind of rule, a union thing. The fire dog can not and will not change channels.

  He did hate having to take worm medicine, and the annual required trips to the vet were no picnic either. Especially the thermometer up the ass part.

  But, hell, it was a living, and not a bad one. Another plus was after several months of trying, he was able to lick his balls.

  At night, when everyone was in their bunks and there were no fires, Spot would read from Call of the Wild, White Fang, Dog Digest, or such, or lie on his back with all four feet in the air, trying to look cute.

  He loved it the when the firemen came in and caught him that way and ooohheeed and ahhhhhed and scratched his belly or patted his head.

  This went on for just short of nine years. Then, one day, while he was lying on the couch, licking his ass — something he cultivated after three years on the job — the Fire Chief and a guy in a dog suit came in.

  “This is your replacement, Spot,” the Chief said.

  “What?”

  “Well, it has been nine years.”

  “You didn’t tell me. Has it been? You’re sure? Aren’t you supposed to warn me? Rex knew his time was up. Remember?”

  “Not exactly. But if you say so. Spot, meet Hal.”

  “Hal? What kind of dog’s name is that? Hal?”

  But it was no use. By the end of the day he had his personal dog biscuits, pin-ups from Dog Digest, and his worm-away medicine packed. There was also a spray can the firemen used to mist on his poop to keep him from eating it. The can of spray didn’t really belong to him, but he took it anyway.

  He picked up his old clothes, went into the changing room. He hadn’t worn anything but the fire dog suit in years, and it felt odd to try his old clothes on. He could hardly remember ever wearing them. He found they were a bit moth-eaten, and he had gotten a little too plump for them. The shoes fit, but he couldn’t tolerate them.

  He kept the dog suit on.

  He caught the bus and went home.

  “What? You lost your job?” his wife said.

  “I didn’t lose anything. They retired me.”

  “You’re not the fire dog?”

  “No. Hal is the fire dog.”

  “I can’t believe it. I give you nine great years —”

  “We’ve been married eleven.”

  “I only count the dog years. Those were the good ones, you know.”

  “Well, I don’t have to quit being a dog. Hell, I am a dog.”

  “You’re not the fire dog. You’ve lost your position, Spot. Oh, I can’t even stand to think about it. Outside. Go on. Git. Outside.”

  Spot went.

  After a while he scratched on the door, but his wife didn’t let him in. He went around back and tried there. That didn’t work either. He looked in the windows, but couldn’t see her.

  He laid down in the yard.

  That night it rained, and he slept under the car, awakened just in time to keep his wife from backing over him on her way to work.

  That afternoon he waited, but his wife did not return at the usual time. Five o’clock was when he came home from the fire house, and she was always waiting, and he had a feeling it was at least five o’clock, and finally the sun went down and he knew it was late.

 
Still, no wife.

  Finally, he saw headlights and a car pulled into the drive. Shella got out. He ran to meet her. To show he was interested, he hunched her leg.

  She kicked him loose. He noticed she was holding a leash. Out of the car came Hal.

  “Look who I got. A real dog.”

  Spot was dumbfounded.

  “I met him today at the fire house, and well, we hit it off.”

  “You went by the fire house?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about me?” Spot asked.

  “Well, Spot, you are a little old. Sometimes, things change. New blood is necessary.”

  “Me and Hal, we’re going to share the house?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  She took Hal inside. Just before they closed the door, Hal slipped a paw behind Shella’s back and shot Spot the finger.

  When they were inside, Spot scratched on the door in a half-hearted way. No soap.

  Next morning Shella hustled him out of the shrubbery by calling his name. She didn’t have Hal with her.

  Great! She had missed him. He bounded out, his tongue dangling like a wet sock. “Come here, Spot.”

  He went. That’s what dogs did. When the master called, you went to them. He was still her dog. Yes sirree, Bob.

  “Come on, boy.” She hustled him to the car.

  As he climbed inside on the back seat and she shut the door, he saw Hal come out of the house stretching. He looked pretty happy. He walked over to the car and slapped Shella on the butt.

  “See you later, baby.”

  “You bet, you dog you.”

  Hal walked down the street to the bus stop. Spot watched him by turning first to the back glass, then rushing over to the side view glass.

  Shella got in the car.

  “Where are we going?” Spot asked.

  “It’s a surprise,” she said.

  “Can you roll down the window back here a bit?”

  “Sure.”

  Spot stuck his head out as they drove along, his ears flapping, his tongue hanging.

  They drove down a side street, turned and tooled up an alley.

  Spot thought he recognized the place.

  Why yes, the vet. They had come from another direction and he hadn’t spotted it right off, but that’s where he was.

  He unhooked the little tag that dangled from his collar. Checked the dates of his last shots.

  No. Nothing was overdue.

  They stopped and Shella smiled. She opened the back door and took hold of the leash. “Come on, Spot.”

  Spot climbed out of the car, though carefully. He wasn’t as spry as he once was.

  Two men were at the back door. One of them was the doctor. The other an assistant.

  “Here’s Spot,” she said.

  “He looks pretty good,” said the doctor.

  “I know. But… Well, he’s old and has his problems. And I have too many dogs.”

  She left him there.

  The vet checked him over and called the animal shelter. “There’s nothing really wrong with him,” he told the attendant that came for him. “He’s just old, and well, the woman doesn’t want to care for him. He’d be great with children.”

  “You know how it is, Doc,” said the attendant. “Dogs all over the place.”

  Later, at the animal shelter he stood on the cold concrete and smelled the other dogs. He barked at the cats he could smell. Fact was, he found himself barking anytime anyone came into the corridor of pens.

  Sometimes men and woman and children came and looked at him.

  None of them chose him. The device in his tail didn’t work right, so he couldn’t wag as ferociously as he liked. His ears were pretty droopy and his jowls hung way too low.

  “He looks like his spots are fading,” said one woman whose little girl had stuck her fingers through the grating so Spot could lick her hand.

  “His breath stinks,” she said.

  As the days went by, Spot tried to look perky all the time. Hoping for adoption.

  But one day, they came for him, wearing white coats and grim faces, brandishing a leash and a muzzle and a hypodermic needle.

  The Big Blow

  TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4, 1900, 4:00 P.M.

  Telegraphed Message from Washington, D.C., Weather Bureau, Central Office, to Issac Cline, Galveston, Texas, Weather Bureau:

  Tropical storm disturbance moving northward over Cuba.

  6:38 P.M.

  On an afternoon hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock, John McBride, six-foot one-and-a-half inches, 220 pounds, ham-handed, built like a wild boar and of similar disposition, arrived by ferry from mainland Texas to Galveston Island, a six-gun under his coat and a razor in his shoe.

  As the ferry docked, McBride set his suitcase down, removed his bowler, took a crisp, white handkerchief from inside his coat, wiped the bowler’s sweatband with it, used it to mop his forehead, ran it over his thinning black hair, and put the hat back on.

  An old Chinese guy in San Francisco told him he was losing his hair because he always wore hats, and McBride decided maybe he was right, but now he wore the hats to hide his baldness. At thirty he felt he was too young to lose his hair. The Chinaman had given him a tonic for his problem at a considerable sum. McBride used it religiously, rubbed it into his scalp. So far, all he could see it had done was shine his bald spot. He ever got back to Frisco, he was gonna look that Chinaman up, maybe knock a few knots in his head.

  As McBride picked up his suitcase and stepped off the ferry with the others, he observed the sky. It appeared green as a pooltable cloth. As the sun dipped down to drink from the Gulf, McBride almost expected to see steam rise up from beyond the island. He took in a deep breath of sea air and thought it tasted all right. It made him hungry. That was why he was here. He was hungry. First on the menu was a woman, then a steak, then some rest before the final meal — the thing he had come for. To whip a nigger.

  He hired a buggy to take him to a poke house he had been told about by his employers, the fellows who had paid his way from Chicago. According to what they said, there was a redhead there so good and tight she’d make you sing soprano. Way he felt, if she was redheaded, female, and ready, he’d be all right, and to hell with the song. It was on another’s tab anyway.

  As the coach trotted along, McBride took in Galveston. It was a Southerner’s version of New York, with a touch of the tropics. Houses were upraised on stilts — thick support posts actually—against the washing of storm waters, and in the city proper the houses looked to be fresh off Deep South plantations.

  City Hall had apparently been designed by an architect with a Moorish background. It was ripe with domes and spirals. The style collided with a magnificent clock housed in the building’s highest point, a peaked tower. The clock was like a miniature Big Ben. England meets the Middle East.

  Electric streetcars hissed along the streets, and there were a large number of bicycles, carriages, buggies, and pedestrians. McBride even saw one automobile.

  The streets themselves were made of buried wooden blocks that McBride identified as ships’ ballast. Some of the side streets were made of white shell, and some were hardened sand. He liked what he saw, thought: Maybe, after I do in the nigger, I’ll stick around awhile. Take in the sun at the beach. Find a way to get my fingers in a little solid graft of some sort.

  When McBride finally got to the whorehouse, it was full dark. He gave the black driver a big tip, cocked his bowler, grabbed his suitcase, went through the ornate iron gate, up the steps, and inside to get his tumblers clicked right.

  After giving his name to the plump madam, who looked as if she could still grind out a customer or two herself, he was given the royalty treatment. The madam herself took him upstairs, undressed him, bathed him, fondled him a bit.

  When he was clean, she dried him off, nestled him in bed, kissed him on the forehead as if he were her little boy, then toddled off. The moment she left, he climbed out of bed, got in
front of the mirror on the dresser and combed his hair, trying to push as much as possible over the bald spot. He had just gotten it arranged and gone back to bed when the redhead entered.

  She was green-eyed and a little thick-waisted, but not bad to look at. She had fire-red hair on her head and a darker fire between her legs, which were white as sheets and smooth as a newborn pig.

  He started off by hurting her a little, tweaking her nipples, just to show her who was boss. She pretended to like it. Kind of money his employers were paying, he figured she’d dip a turd in gravel and push it around the floor with her nose and pretend to like it.

  McBride roughed her bottom some, then got in the saddle and bucked a few. Later on, when she got a little slow about doing what he wanted, he blacked one of her eyes.

  When the representatives of the Galveston Sporting Club showed up, he was lying in bed with the redhead, uncovered, letting a hot wind blow through the open windows and dry his and the redhead’s juices.

  The madam let the club members in and went away. There were four of them, all dressed in evening wear with top hats in their hands. Two were gray-haired and gray-whiskered. The other two were younger men. One was large, had a face that looked as if it regularly stopped cannonballs. Both eyes were black from a recent encounter. His nose was flat and strayed to the left of his face. He did his breathing through his mouth. He didn’t have any top front teeth.

  The other young man was slight and a dandy. This, McBride assumed, would be Ronald Beems, the man who had written him on behalf of the Sporting Club.

  Everything about Beems annoyed McBride. His suit, unlike the wrinkled and drooping suits of the others, looked fresh-pressed, unresponsive to the afternoon’s humidity. He smelled faintly of mothballs and naphtha, and some sort of hair tonic that had ginger as a base. He wore a thin, little moustache and the sort of hair McBride wished he had. Black, full, and longish, with muttonchop sideburns. He had perfect features. No fist had ever touched him. He stood stiff, as if he had a hoe handle up his ass.

  Beems, like the others, looked at McBride and the redhead with more than a little astonishment. McBride lay with his legs spread and his back propped against a pillow. He looked very big there. His legs and shoulders and arms were thick and twisted with muscle and glazed in sweat. His stomach protruded a bit, but it was hard-looking.