Immortal Max by Lutricia Clifton Page A

salary?”
    â€œSalary? Oh. How much to walk my Apollo.” Looking stern, he smacks a fist into the other hand and says, “Five-dollar bill, not a dime more.”
    â€œEach time?”
    â€œEach time.” Another
smack
. “Not a dime more.”
    Cool
. Fifteen dollars a week for walking a dog that fits in the palm of my hand.
    I smack my fist, too, and say, “Not a dime more.”
    I leave my bike at Mr. P’s house like Chief Beaumont told me to do and head for Mrs. Callahan’s to meet her two peekapoos. Her house is close by, just down the block and across the street.
    Along the driveways, I see lights on posts. Solar-powered LEDs with red, blue, or yellow glass. Some posts are plastic, some aluminum. Others stainless steel. We have a big halogen light on a telephone pole to light our driveway. People at Country-Wood have Christmas lights.
    As I walk, I become a calculator, figuring how long it will take to make enough to buy one of the puppies in the newspaper. If I can get fifteen a week for the four dogs, I’ll make sixty dollars a week. In a little over four weeks, I’ll have two hundred and sixty dollars. Ten dollars more than I need.
    Woohoo
. I’m a laughing jackal all the way to Mrs. Callahan’s.

Chapter 11

    When I saw Mrs. Callahan at the office, I couldn’t see her very well behind her desk, so I’m surprised when she opens the door. She’s as opposite Mr. Petropoulos as summer is to winter. Her hair is sunshine. Cheeks pink rose petals. Mouth a never-ending smile. In a singsong voice, she invites me into a living room filled with flowers that will never wilt. Flowery patterns cover the sofa and chairs. Pictures of flowers hang on walls. Vases of silk flowers fill every table. She introduces me to two white dogs, curly marshmallows with bows on their ears. Baby and Buddy hide behind her legs, growling at me.
    â€œI don’t know, Sammy.” Mrs. Callahan’s smile starts to droop. “I’m afraid this isn’t going to work.”
    But it
has
to work. . . .
    â€œWait, let me show you what I know about peekapoos.” I sit down on the flowery sofa, open my scrapbook, and pause, remembering that Buddy and Baby are designer dogs, not purebred.
And
remembering that Beth gave me a printout about peekapoos.
    I flip pages furiously, looking for the printout. It’s
gone
.
    Mrs. Callahan stares at me. Eyes expectant.
    â€œI’ll, uh, I’ll have to look at two sections because Buddy and Baby . . . well, uh, they’re not purebreds. They’re a mix of poodle and Pekingese.”
    The golden smile makes another showing. “
Phish
—like I care about purebred?” Mrs. Callahan settles into a flowery chair.
    As I did with Mr. P, I talk about the best parts to Mrs. Callahan.She’s happy to hear that poodles are considered loyal and playful. That Pekingese, once considered sacred dogs, are dignified and aristocratic.
    Buddy and Baby aren’t so happy. Neither will come near me. When Mrs. Callahan’s smile starts to droop again, my heart pummels my ribs. Silently, I regurgitate what I just read, select the choicest piece, and spit it out before I forget it.
    â€œBuddy and Baby are acting this way ’cause they take more after the Pekingese than the poodle. You know,
dignified
. I’m sure as soon as they get to know me better, they’ll warm right up.”
    â€œYes,
dignified
.” Smiling again, Mrs. Callahan gives both dogs a treat. Little dog biscuits shaped like bow ties. Then she turns her smile on me and says, “Now, a treat for
us
.”
    She disappears before I can tell her about the treat at Mr. P’s house. As I wait for her, I read a description of the two dogs’ temperaments, hoping to find something that will make them like me. I learn that Pekingese are independent, assertive, and stubborn. Poodles, especially the miniatures, are picky and