Off the Chart by James W. Hall Page A

okay, and the old man gave a just-fine wave while the dog snuffled in close.
    Thorn brushed some sawdust off the bench, then walked over for a better view of the wrestling match. He squatted in the grass as the puppy drew out of Lawton’s grasp, shook himself hard, then marched over to one of the old man’s leather sandals that lay in the grass. He plopped down and began to gnaw on his tail. His fur was matted and there were dark greasy streaks across his golden back. His ribs were showing through his scruffy coat.
    â€œKind of mangy,” said Thorn. “Looks like he’s been sleeping in a tar pit.”
    â€œHe’s a survivor,” Lawton said. “Been living off the fat of the land.”
    â€œAnd how do you know that?”
    â€œHe just told me.”
    Lawton wriggled his finger in a patch of grass and the dog paused midmunch and peered at this new quarry. Lawton wagged his finger again and the puppy dropped his tail, rose to a crouch, lowered his head an inch, focusing like a well-schooled bird dog. Lawton wiggled his finger again and the puppy leaped a few inches in the air and pounced on Lawton’s hand.
    The old man laughed, turning his gray eyes on Thorn.
    â€œGoddamn it, I want this dog, and I’m going to have it, so don’t fuck with me, mister.”
    Thorn drew a breath. In the last few months Lawton’s condition had suffered a series of small and quirky downturns. For one thing, there were these new flashes of irritability. Curses flared to the old man’s lips without warning or cause.
    â€œThis puppy and me,” Lawton said, “we’ve bonded. It’d be a goddamn criminal travesty to separate us.”
    â€œWe’ll talk to Alex when she gets home. See what she says.”
    â€œI don’t give a shit what she says. If I want a dog, by God, I’ll have a dog. I’m too goddamn old to take orders anymore.”
    The puppy fastened his teeth onto the tip of Lawton’s finger. But as Lawton stroked the Lab’s throat, the spiky puppy’s eyes closed and with a quiet groan he began to nurse on the old man’s crinkled fingertip.
    â€œI need a dog, goddamn it,” Lawton said. “I need somebody to talk to.”
    â€œYou can talk to me,” said Thorn. “Anytime you want.”
    â€œYou know what I mean,” Lawton said. “Somebody on my own level.”
    Thorn smiled.
    â€œHow old am I anyway?” Lawton said.
    â€œNot all that old.”
    â€œAm I still a boy?”
    Thorn shook his head.
    â€œOlder than a boy.”
    â€œWell, damn it, I feel like a boy,” Lawton said. “I feel twelve. That’s all right, isn’t it? Feeling twelve? I mean, it’s not sick, is it, feeling that way?”
    â€œI’d say that’s fine. Twelve is a damn good age.”
    â€œWell, good, then I’m a boy,” Lawton said. “And every boy needs a goddamn dog. So this one’s mine.”
    As Lawton stroked the pup, Thorn leaned back, propped his elbows in the brittle grass. The sky had gone pink with honeyed whisks and spatters of color as bright and unnameable as the garish shades of reef fish. A school of cherry clouds cruised in formation a hundred miles aloft, and the entire bay had turned the hazy pink of brick dust.
    As the final glint of sun disappeared, he heard the foghorn blareof a conch shell blown from a neighbor’s rooftop. A venerable Keys tradition still hanging on, a long single-noted salute to the dying day performed with the shell of the nearly extinct gastropod. The queen conch, official symbol of the Florida Keys, had almost vanished from her waters. Too many roadside stands, too many tourists looking for a cheap memento of their week in paradise, too many conch fritters and bowls of conch chowder. These days the roadside stands had to air-freight their conch shells from distant oceans where the locals still believed they were the keepers of a limitless