As Dog Is My Witness by JEFFREY COHEN Page B

petty. And maybe some of it
had to do with the fact that I can’t stand her brother, who acts as
if I’m a mistake his sister should have corrected years ago. So
maybe I was reacting to that.
    But I wasn’t going to apologize for it.
    At that moment, a hand, palm flat, hit me smack on
the shoulder. I was so lost in my Talmudic musings I hadn’t even
noticed the three men standing on the sidewalk under a bare tree—a
very unusual sight in this neighborhood at this time of night. They
were wearing matching parkas, with fur-lined hoods, like Elliot
Gould wore in M*A*S*H.
    “Tucker,” the one with the palm said. He was the
smallest, only about five inches taller than me.
    I blinked. In this cold, without my contact lenses
in, it was hard to see their faces in the hoods. There were three
of them—big, bigger, and biggest—and based on the gravelly voice,
this one had been gargling less with the Listerine and more with
the glass bottle it came in.
    “I’m sorry, I don’t know you,” I said. “I don’t have
my glasses on, and . . . 
    “It’s okay,” said Bigger. “We know you .” I
didn’t like the way that sounded.
    “Really? Who’s we ?” No sense acting scared. Of
course, in this case, I wouldn’t have been acting, but still.
    “We want you to stop asking questions about the guy
in North Brunswick,” Big said. “It’s none of your business.”
    “I’m a reporter,” I said. “Whatever they tell me to
ask about is my business.”
    Big looked at Bigger in disbelief and laughed. “You
don’t understand,” he said. “You’re not being asked—you’re being
told. Stop asking about the guy in North Brunswick.”
    I looked over at Biggest, who had neither moved nor
spoken. “I really can’t see that well,” I said to Bigger. “Is he
alive?”
    “Do you want to stay alive?” Bigger
answered.
    “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I
screamed, hoping someone would call the cops about the noise. “Who
are you to tell me what I can and can’t do? Why should I
stop reporting on Michael Huston’s murder?”
    Big nodded, acknowledging the question. “Because Mr.
Shapiro doesn’t like it,” he said.
    Mr. Shapiro! I kept up the brave front, although I
had to pretend my hands were shaking from the cold.
    “And who’s this Mr. Shapiro?” I asked, outwardly
unconcerned. So what if my intestines had gone liquid.
    “Don’t waste my time,” Bigger said. He reached into
his pocket.
    “Don’t shoot me,” I said. “With all these clothes on,
it would just be a waste of a good bullet.”
    “Is that what you think? That we’re gonna shoot you?”
Big looked serious, as if he were considering the idea. But his
hand came out of his pocket with a piece of hard candy, which he
struggled to unwrap with his gloves on. Nice work, Tucker,
suggesting your own demise to three woolly mammoths in the
dark.
    “Be very careful about sudden movements,” I said.
“This dog doesn’t like it when people threaten me.”
    They took a look at Warren’s little beagle face and
long basset ears, and laughed—except Biggest.
    “Don’t let his appearance fool you,” I said. “He’s
vicious. Bit three mailmen . . .  yesterday.”
    They laughed louder. Maybe I could humor them into
letting me live. Visions of Leah crying at my funeral didn’t make
me feel very comical.
    “You’re kidding, right?” said Bigger. “That’s a toy
dog.” He bent his knees to pet Warren.
    Warren, to his everlasting salvation and my
amazement, growled and snapped at Bigger’s hand. Bigger recoiled
with astonishment and stood up. “Hey . . .  he
said.
    Warren growled louder, and barked, baring his teeth.
I couldn’t believe it.
    “Nobody’s getting hurt,” said Big. “We had a message
to deliver, and we delivered it. That’s all.”
    “So you don’t mind if I take my dog home now?”
    “Course not,” said Big. “Nobody means no harm.” I
started to walk Warren past the three men.
    “Just remember