The Do-Right by Lisa Sandlin

said louder, jogging up to him.
    The man jumped. “What do you want?”
    â€œYou planning to bean the dog?”
    The guy squinted, creasing the considerable bags under his eyes.
    â€œI said—”
    â€œWait a minute.” He turned his head and pinched inside his ear to remove a plug. Then the other, dropped both earplugs in the T-shirt pocket. “Wasn’t for these sons a bitches I’d be dead. What’d you say?”
    Phelan smiled and introduced himself. “Your neighbor,” he hiked his chin toward Laddy’s owner’s house, “hired me to make sure nobody was hurting her dog.”
    â€œThat’s not a dog. That’s a broke-dick yapping machine.”
    â€œCall the police on him for disturbing the peace?”
    â€œâ€™Bout ten times. They don’t come anymore.” The man backhanded the air disgustedly.
    â€œI could sure understand it, but I don’t suppose you fed that dog anything dangerous?”
    â€œDangerous.” The guy blinked crusty eyes at Phelan. “You mean rat poison. Strychnine. Arsenic. Insecticide. Cynanide.” He thought a second. “Brass tacks.”
    â€œSomething like that,” Phelan said.
    â€œNaw, that’d be against the law. Which I know. I’m a security guard, work the eleven to seven. Listen, dogs are better’n people any day. Find a bad dog, you find a stupid, selfish bitch-face owner.”
    The man shot Phelan a sly glance, brought his hand up to his mouth and ate what was in it. Phelan imagined molars cracking on the marble. Ow . Going pretty far to prove a point. The old guy was wearing the same crimp-smile as Juanita Martin. He bent and fished out a couple more marbles, tossed them into his mouth.
    â€œWant some grapes? More in the sack.”
    Phelan commanded himself to maintain a professional attitude. Which, as far as he understood it—and he had understood it since he was ten—meant tough and knowing. Tough. Knowing. Couldn’t hold it—he laughed. Told the neighbor what he was going to recommend his client do: keep the dog in the house, send him to obedience school, etc., etc. “For the good of everybody, including the dog.”
    The man bent and fondled the neck of his mannerly lab, who craned to lick the guy’s whiskered jaw. “Yeah? I’ll believe it when I see it. This is a dog, by the way. Ain’t ya, old boy? I was gonna poison somebody, I’d poison her .” He stabbed toward the client’s house. “And I tell you just how I’d do it, too—”
    â€œDon’t tell me.”
    The man stared at him, nodded. “Good point.” He headed back to his garage, slippers slapping. The old dog followed him.
    Phelan squatted and examined the contents of the abandoned sack. No marbles, nails, capsules, or razor blades. Unripe-looking red grapes pulled off a stalk. He rolled them around, checked for needle sticks, none he could see. He sniffed one. Grape.
    Back at the office, Phelan gave Miss Wade his hours for the bill. His secretary left for a late lunch and when she got back, stuck her head in his office and said, “Grapes.”
    â€œWhat about ‘em?”
    â€œThem and raisins are bad for dogs’ kidneys. Don’t know how many it’d take to kill one, but a bag of grapes didn’t help Laddy out any.” She put her purse in a drawer and took out some typing paper.
    â€œYou eat at the library, Miss Wade?”
    â€œThey don’t notice, you sit at a back table and keep a sandwich under it.”
    At 5:20, Phelan called the client and gave her his report absolving Juanita Martin. Despite her pestering, he declined to reveal the identity of the neighbor whom he called “the chief complainant” and read out the two numbers of canine obedience schools listed in the Yellow Pages. Mentioned her other options. The client protested that Laddy was a sweet dog, and she didn’t need him