The Midnight Dog of the Repo Man by W. Bruce Cameron Page A

I can spring it on her at an opportune moment, like maybe when I’m losing an argument.
    Becky is master of the forlorn look—for as long as I can remember, she’s been a little sad, her mouth pulled small and her brown eyes shadowed. The random lottery in the womb won me my dad’s DNA, so I grew past six feet in high school, two hundred pounds of muscle that could hit the line hard and fast, a football tucked under my right arm. Since then I’ve let the biceps go a little soft and packed on another twenty pounds or so, but I still can intimidate drunks when I need to. Becky is as petite as my mother and was shy and unpopular growing up, everyone always asking her if she really was Ruddy McCann’s sister because she seemed “so different.” She owns the Black Bear, and I could read her calculations as she regarded Stasia’s and Cora’s painfully slow consumption of pinot grigio. Another night when the income fell short of the outgo, moneywise. Becky’s forlorn look was not without cause.
    I figured that by the end of the week I could kick in a few extra bucks to help her enterprise. I’m not just a bar bouncer; I have a far more glitzy occupation during the day—I’m the local repo man.
    Stasia lifted her glass and took a tiny sip—she was drinking so slowly she was losing more wine to evaporation than consumption. Becky and I exchanged glances, a why-did-they-order-it-if-they’re-not-going-to-drink-it expression on our faces.
    And that’s when two guys burst in the front door, crashing into each other like hockey players after a puck.
    They were dressed in normal June-in-Michigan outfits: jeans, sweatshirts, dirty running shoes. Well, the ski masks pulled down over their faces were a little unusual. Plus they were carrying shotguns, which they pointed at the bar, clearly expecting someone to be standing there—Becky had moved to stand by the phone in the corner.
    â€œThis is a robbery!” one of them yelled. “Nobody move!”
    â€œFreeze!” the other one shouted. He aimed his shotgun at Stasia, who obeyed and froze, her wineglass halfway to her lips. Her pale skin went, well, paler. Cora stared, her blue eyes frightened and wide, looking afraid to even blink.
    There was a long, tense moment. “Hey,” I finally objected sternly. I didn’t like the men threatening our customers.
    They both swung their weapons in my direction. “Better,” I grunted.
    Because they were looking at me they could see, looming in the corner, the reason why Becky’s place was called the Black Bear: a thoroughly taxidermied bear stood upright behind me, his claws raised and lips drawn back in a snarl. “Yahh!” the taller of the two men shouted, jumping back in surprise.
    â€œJesus!” the shorter one exclaimed disgustedly. “I told you there was a bear. You almost gave me a heart attack.”
    I looked over my shoulder at the beast. “That’s Bob,” I introduced mildly. “He’s a bear, or used to be, anyway.”
    â€œWell, it doesn’t exactly make for a friendly atmosphere,” the taller one complained.
    â€œRight. You’re pointing guns, but we’re the unfriendly ones.”
    He stiffened, going back to being a tough-guy robber. “Just do as we say and nobody gets hurt,” he scowled. His lips looked oddly wet and thick in his mask—pretty repulsive, if you want to know the truth.
    â€œEmpty the cash register,” the shorter guy commanded. I cocked my head—the voice sounded familiar, somehow.
    Becky gave me a wild look and I shook my head at her. “Don’t worry, Becky; everything is going to be fine,” I reassured her. I could feel my temperature rising—I did not want my sister to be afraid, not of these two clowns. I stood up.
    â€œHey!” the taller guy protested, tensing. “I said not to move!”
    â€œYeah, but
he
said to empty