Hair of the Dog, Gordon Carroll [top 100 novels of all time TXT] 📗

death in the battlefield. So yes, I may have looked silly to the rest of the world, but I smelled and listened and watched, just like Max. And a few minutes later I was rewarded. I’m sure Max knew the scent of everyone in the three-car caravan of shiny black SUV’s that finally rounded the last bend and stretched out in procession on the far end of my driveway long before I ever heard or saw them, but still I think I had them pegged before most people would.

I’d already worked out, very lightly due to the aforementioned injuries, and showered and eaten breakfast. I was dressed in a green tee, blue jeans and running shoes. The front of the tee-shirt was printed with a logo of a fist holding a fragmentation hand grenade, stamped with the standard Marine eagle, globe and anchor that read “Hand Grenades, because sometimes close is good enough”. A compact Glock 42 rode high on my right ankle underneath the pants and my belt buckle knife sat snugly in place. Other than that and my two dogs, I was unarmed.

Standing up, I eyed the first Escalade as the doors on both sides opened and four men wearing black suits with ties and sunglasses and ear pieces stepped out. Government, obviously. The only question was local or Federal. I guessed Federal.

Four more suits stepped out of the back SUV, keeping tabs on their six, and finally, two men stepped out of the middle car while the driver and front passenger stayed inside. The first man out of this car was also wearing the standard suit, which was about as black as his skin, and maybe as tall and wide as your average mountain. The second man, the man they were all obviously guarding, was tall and thin, in his early fifties, also black like all the agents, but wearing a golfing shirt, shorts and one of those little visor hat thingies that golfers like to wear. Think Morgan Freeman’s character “Red” in Shawshank. The big man opened Mr. Freeman’s door and waited patiently until he finished with a cell call that he must have been engaged in as they were driving up to my house.

I looked at Max. He watched the men. I looked at Pilgrim. He was still on his back, his tongue flopped back and out the side of his mouth waiting for me to play. The three of us waited patiently, just like the agents for “Red”, to make a few last jokes and then laugh heartily before saying bye and hanging up and then deigning to acknowledge my presence.

He held out his hand. “Mr. Mason,” he said, and sure enough, his voice held the musical intonations of a classic stage actor, deep and resonating. “I’m Senator Alvin Marsh, from the great State of Illinois. Nice to meet you.”

I took his hand, his grip was firm. He gave me exactly three pumps, like it was practiced, which I suppose it was, and then let go.

“Sorry for the surprise visit here at your residence,” said the Senator, but I would prefer to keep our meeting somewhat under wraps for now. No media, if you understand my meaning. Not yet anyway.” He made a slight hand gesture toward my house. “Might we talk inside?”

I’ve had some interesting and diverse people up to my house over the years, some friendly, some not. But I have to admit, this was my first United States Senator, let alone Morgan Freeman.

I said, “Sure,” and held out my hand for him to lead the way.

The mountain pushed past me as if I wasn’t there and started for the door.

Max suddenly appeared in front of him and he stopped…fast. Max didn’t growl, he didn’t even show his teeth. He just sat there…watching…like a statue…straight into the mountain’s eyes. I saw the man’s hand slip into his jacket and I instinctively touched his wrist. His head slowly swiveled toward me. He looked down at my hand as if to say; move it or lose it. I gave him a little smile, just a twitch. I’d only just met him and I already didn’t like him.

“Don’t shoot my dog,” I said. “It’d make him mad, and you wouldn’t like him when he’s mad.” I let my hand drop.

His expression never changed. Mountains are stoic that way.

“Wouldn’t think of it, sir,” he said. His voice matched the rest of him, slow and dark, like boulders crushing against each other under the crust of the earth, only when he said the word “sir” he put a little spin to it that made it sound like a pejorative. Like when I was in the Marines and we had to address a new boot loui who thought he knew everything. We would say the word “sir” which everyone knew was code for “maggot.”

“Max,” I said, and gave him a head nod. Max’s eyes stayed on the mountain, then slowly looked to me, then back to the mountain. Finally he raised up and walked over to a patch of grass not far from Pilgrim.

“You’ll have to excuse Clyde,” said the Senator. “He’s been with me from the beginning and he takes my safety very personally.”

I held back the ever classy response I know he is but what am I? and instead said, “Consider him excused.”

The mountain walked into my living room and did a quick safety check, maybe expecting Inspector Clouseau’s assistant Kato to be hiding inside, just waiting to attack. When he didn’t find him he came back out and held the door for the Senator.

The rest of the detail took up positions around my house.

I thought about grabbing a couple of beers from the fridge for everyone and tossing them around, but decided against it.

“Coffee, tea or…?”

“You,” broke in the Senator with a grin and a finger pointed at me. I could see he had an actor’s charisma. He gestured at the couch, this guy was big on gestures, “Do you mind?” he asked.

“No, of course,