The Rescue

12

“Bettina,” says Marin, the Coastal Eddy receptionist, sticking her head into Bettina’s cubicle. “There’s a Dan Strickland here in the lobby to see you. “Somewhat hot.”

Felix sits suddenly, faces the open doorway to the cubicle, ears up, tips out and alert.

“That got his attention,” says Marin.

“It sure did.”

“Shall I show him in?”

The dog studies Bettina with his full attention.

Bettina studies him back. “I’ll come to the lobby. Felix, kennel-up.”

The dog whines softly but goes into his crate. Bettina hooks the door closed.

The Coastal Eddy lobby is small and well lit, with a Scandinavian sofa and chairs in blue leather and steel, glass tables, and windows facing Coast Highway. Two of the interior walls are mostly glass, giving open views of Marin at the front desk and beyond, to the editorial, sales, and production areas.

There’s only one other person here, a blond guy in tan cords and a black sweater with the sleeves casually hiked. Polished brown boots, gold watch. He stands, cants his head, and offers a polite, post-pandemic spread of hands from six feet away, which Bettina answers with her own.

“I’m Dan Strickland and I’m really sorry to barge in on you like this. But I wanted to meet you in person. I absolutely loved your dog video, and the story in the paper. I sent a donation to the clinic. Your stories really moved me. And I don’t move easily.”

He’s half a head taller than she is at six feet, which puts Bettina at ease. His face is lean and closed, the opposite of Billy Ray Crumley’s. Gray eyes. Thirtysomething. Handsome. He reminds her of Nick, her oldest brother, up in San Francisco, raising a family.

“Well, I’m happy you like the stories, Mr. Strickland.”

“I love them. The clinic video, that poor dog. The doctor. The boy who carried the dog through the rain. Wow — it’s a story with meaning. I’m familiar with Tijuana, too, and I know how violent it can be.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a self-defense instructor. I have a school down in San Diego.”

“A dojo?”

“Part dojo, part gym, part shooting range. Classrooms, a lunchroom, kitchen, showers and locker rooms.”

“Serious stuff.”

“I take it seriously.”

“I like to shoot trap,” she says, wondering why.

A small smile. “No room for a trap range. Sorry.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Strickland?”

Bettina tries to read his expressions but she can’t sort them out: reluctance, hesitation, determination? What can she do for him? she wonders. He’s got the air of a man who gets what he wants.

“Felix’s name is Joe,” he says. “He’s a washed-out DEA detection dog that the agency placed with me after his retirement. He ran away from home six months ago. They said he was a wanderer, and they were right. I’m astonished that he’s still alive. Especially after being shot, down in Mexico.”

“My God — Felix was yours?”

“Well, Ms. Blazak, that’s why I’m here. Because Joe is mine.”

“No, he isn’t, and you can’t have him.”

This Strickland looks surprised. “Can I see him?”

“Absolutely not. I rescued that dog from the needle. I paid good money to the clinic. He likes me and he’s happy. He was shot on your watch, Mr. Strickland. I don’t think he needs a reminder from his past. He needs to move forward into a new life. Your part of his miracle is to let him go. You can’t prove it anyway.”

“Nonsense. He’s my dog who wandered off.”

“But he’s mine now.”

Strickland gives her a sympathetic look, takes out his phone, sits on the long blue leather-and-steel sofa. Bettina sits four feet away from him, staring unhappily out the window at Coast Highway. Her heart pounds with contradictory emotions: If Felix was really this guy’s Joe, am I morally required to give Felix back to him, or am I permitted to keep him?

Furthermore, Teddy Delgado claims that Felix was his Joe, so can they both be telling the truth?

The man leans forward, then sets his phone on one of the glass tables with the potted succulents and stacks of Coastal Eddy hard copies tastefully fanned out in reverse chronological order.

“I’m sorry,” he says as she picks up the phone and studies the pictures:

Strickland and Felix sit on the tailgate of a pickup, both facing the camera.

Strickland and Felix in a swimming pool.

Strickland and Felix, face-to-face, the dog smiling in that way dogs have, all tongue and teeth and joy.

Strickland and Felix in a good close-up portrait.

Felix asleep in a square of sunlight, ears relaxed, eyes slits — a picture taken with love.

It’s Felix, all right, Bettina knows, unless he has an identical twin. Which she also knows is possible, but extremely rare. Technically he and his siblings are fraternal twins, but there’s plenty of variety in litters. Especially in street dogs composed of varied ancestry.

“He has a scar inside his right ear, kind of raised and rectangular,” says Strickland. “You’ve probably noticed it. His manners are very good, both on-leash and off. He likes to lie on his stomach, put his head on his front feet, furrow his brow, and watch you. He’s thoughtful. He’s faster than greased lightning, chases his tail in a blur, and he’s a world-class napper.”

“You can’t just come in here and take him.”

“I didn’t ask to take him. I asked to see him.”

“Do you think that’s fair to him? To interrupt his new world?”

“I do. And I think you are ethically required to let me see a dog that I spent well over a year with, and you’ve had for less than four days. If our positions were reversed, I would let you see him. I would be happy to.”

“Don’t tell me what to be happy about.”

“Is he here with you now? I see a short white Joe-style hair on your sweater.”

“He’s with a friend today.”

Bettina sets the phone back on the table and Strickland takes it, glances at the screen, swipes up. A small nod and smile. No joy in him. The pain of memory? Longing? Being close to what you cannot have?

“If I were a writer,” he says, “I’d like my dog at my feet while I work. In fact, that would be my dream job — to write good stories with Joe nearby. Unfortunately, I have none of the talent you do. In my self-defense classes Joe hangs around and socializes but play-bites people’s toes sometimes.”

“Felix is a sweetheart,” says Bettina, her disappointment collapsing down into itself like a dynamited building.

“Would you consider money?” asks Dan Strickland.

“I will not sell that dog to you.”

“No, money to see him.”

“I’m not that cold.”

“I just want to see Joe.”

“I wish you had never walked in here.”

“Just wait till you get to know me.” Then, of course, the man-who-gets-everything-he-wants grin.

“I can wait.”

Strickland stands and pockets the phone. “I could be wrong, but I think Joe is just a few yards from here, in your office.”

“It’s a cubicle.”

Strickland walks away from Bettina and looks through the glass wall as if he’ll spot Joe in the interior bustle of Coastal Eddy.

Bettina is angry and refuses to check out his hindside. More than angry. She loves Felix and hates herself for being defeated. Hates having to do the right thing.

“Follow me, Mr. Strickland.”

“Just Dan.”

When Bettina opens the crate, Felix tears to Dan Strickland’s side and sits, looking up into his face with adoration, whimpering. Strickland kneels and pulls the dog’s face to his own. Lets Felix lick him while muttering “Joe” over and over. Felix stands and keeps licking, his entire body wagging.

“You still can’t have him,” says Bettina.

“I’ll pay you five thousand dollars for him.”

“I won’t sell him for any price.”

“Ten thousand. Think what you can do. Give it to the Assisi clinic and save hundreds of dogs. And get a puppy you can bond with in the eighth week of his life. You’ll never have that with Joe. Even I didn’t.”

What kind of man blows ten grand on a dog? she wonders. In love or just nuts?

“If you try to walk out of here with him, I’ll call the police.”

Strickland gives her a sharp look.

“I have papers to prove ownership, vaccines, everything,” she says.

“I understand that he’s legally yours, Ms. Blazak.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Felix, come.”

Felix hesitates, then goes over to Bettina, looks up at her with a doggy smile, still wagging his tail. Bettina sees that Felix adores his former owner, but he likes her, Bettina, too. She wants to kneel and let him lick her, but she doesn’t want Dan Strickland’s know-it-all manly fucking germs all over her face.

“Can I arrange a play date for him?” he asks. “With me, I mean.”

“You cannot be serious.”

Dan Strickland looks serious, though.

Bettina kneels to pet her dog’s head, gets her fingers behind those expressive button ears — or are they rose ears or semi-pricks? It all depends on what he’s feeling. Mood ears. Not even always symmetrical. But he loves getting petted there, Bettina knows. She’s hugely surprised and deeply thankful that Felix likes her, even with his previous master in the same room.

“I don’t joke,” says Strickland. “Life is too short for jokes. I want to see Joe again.”

“I don’t trust you to bring him back.”

“I won’t take him away in the first place. I mean you too. The three of us.”

“God, no.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just a bad idea.”

“How am I not trustworthy?”

“I don’t know exactly. It’s just too...”

“Too what?”

“Much. It’s too much.”

“It’s not much at all. A simple walk on the beach. Or maybe at the park at Top of the World, or Heisler. It can be anytime you like. Any hour of any day. Joe, you, and me.”

“Felix. He’s mine.”

“But you have an ethical obligation to let him be mine again. At the very least to share him with me. You can’t just barrel in and take a man’s dog away.”

“Oh yes, I can.”

“Think about what you just said.”

“Do not. Tell me. What to do.”

He puts his hands on his hips and stares at her.

She sizes him up as best she can. He seems calm and maybe trustworthy and she senses no meanness in him. Nothing out of plumb, as her dad would say. He’s possibly intelligent, seeing the dog hair on her, and not falling for her fibs. His face is difficult to read and his gray eyes look hard as stones. He teaches people how to shoot and beat up other people. He looks like a guy in a pickup truck commercial but without the truck. Better dressed. Like her Nick again: something of the boy in him, but resolute and inadvertently likable.

However, Felix was in Strickland’s care when he got shot and almost killed. Strickland might have tried to find him, but how hard did he look?

Bettina won’t trust Felix alone with this guy for even one second, but that’s not really the question here, she reminds herself. The question is, could she tolerate Felix and her seeing this guy again, on his terms, under any circumstances?

“I’ll consider it. You can get me through the Coastal Eddy directory.”

Dan Strickland smiles widely now, changing his whole stern countenance. The boy comes through when he lets his emotion show. He offers his open hands toward Bettina as he did in the lobby, but makes no move toward her. Bettina does likewise. Strickland kneels down again to hug Felix.

“You made my day, Ms. Blazak,” he says. “I can’t wait to see you two again.”

“Down, boy,” Bettina tells him.

At home that night, Felix on the floor beside her, Bettina does due diligence on Dan Strickland.

Her truthmatters.com service spits out the basics:

Daniel Knowles Strickland, 33 years old, LKA 521 E. Cedar St., San Diego, CA.

Son of investor Dyson Strickland and attorney Jennifer Knowles-Strickland.

Sister Allison Strickland-Stewart, 26, of Greenwich, CT.

No criminal record or current warrants; Newport Harbor High School graduate 2008; one semester Orange Coast Community College 2010–2011; Marine Corps service 2012–2013, one tour of duty in Afghanistan; Silver Star awarded 2013.

San Diego Police Department 2013–2014.

California Private Investigation certification 2015.

Strickland Security, LLC, 2016–2019.

Apex Self-Defense 2020 to present.

Bettina finds Dyson Strickland and Jennifer Knowles had combined assets of $145 million at the time of their recent divorce. Dyson now residing in Newport Beach, CA, and Jackson, WY; Jennifer in New York, NY.

Apex Self-Defense, including the building, is valued at $2.1 million. Dan Strickland is sole proprietor; no liens or judgments.

“Boy, that former master of yours sure goes fast,” she says, looking at Felix, who cocks his head and lets his ears rise as if he’s trying to catch every syllable. “One day he’s graduating from high school, and eight years later he’s been to college, gotten the Silver Star, been a cop, a licensed private eye, and has his own security company. One thing to another. With years off, in between. What was he doing? Not marrying, not having kids. Estranged from Mom and Dad. Estranged from sister.”

She finds the social media slide on truthmatters.com, but Strickland doesn’t do social media. He comes up on an old SDPD website photo of young officers, then she sees the same picture way down on her Pinterest SDPD search.

“Maybe he gets bored,” she tells the dog. “Maybe he’s got ADHD. One semester of college? Who drops out of college after one semester? He seems calm and reasonable. Maybe that should worry me — the ‘seems’ part.”

On the real estate / residence slide she finds seven former addresses, all in Southern California. When she calls them up with Google Maps, they’re modest-looking places, small single-family homes, usually in coastal towns.

Apex Self-Defense, which apparently is Daniel Strickland’s residence as well, looks like an old brick warehouse beneath an overpass and surrounded by taller structures, older and newer. A tangled urban mess, Bettina thinks. No sign on it, no clue that there’s shooting and hand-to-hand combat going on inside. Not many windows, except for the third floor, which has big, new-looking windows all around. Still, thinks Bettina, not a place I would want to live.

She pictures Felix inside that building, mixing it up with the shooters and fighters.

Truthmatters.com tells her that “Private Strickland was awarded the Silver Star for gallantry in action against the Taliban in Helmand Province in 2011.”

Leaving Bettina curious about what he actually did to earn the Silver Star. She’d ask him that herself, on the small chance that she accepts his offer of a “playdate” for Felix. The very small chance. It intrigues her that Strickland has been trained to kill, and now trains others how keep from being killed.

She’s always been interested in people who accept — and even welcome — danger. She’s written and posted about a police officer who survived an on-patrol shooting and returned to duty as fast as he could, and a decorated soldier back from his third tour of Afghanistan, and a married couple whose business is taking people down into the ocean to view great white sharks. She has also interviewed her idol, surfer Bethany Hamilton, who survived a shark attack and continues to surf professionally with only one arm. Try paddling out on a ten-foot day without that. What draws her to these people is her own willingness to go fast and fall hard: barrel-racing horses, surfing waves taller than she is, road-biking up and down the hilly Southern California coast at breakneck speed, asking questions in dangerous places — such as in Tijuana with Fidelito and the mean cops. Even her trapshooting as a teenager had an element of danger in it, guns being instruments of death.

Bettina likes the risk of danger and the excitement of being close to it. The excitement of beating it. Her mother is that way; her father is not. Only one of her brothers sides with her mom — Nick is a high-risk guy, joined the Army and came back decorated. Connor was his opposite, as was Keith — cautious and measured.

Now she considers a USMC photo of Strickland being presented his Silver Star. Even with the buzz cut and the desert camo, he’s good looking. A strong chin and nose. Clear gray eyes. No emotion. Calm but ready.

There’s a story in this guy, she thinks.

For her, a problematic one. She can’t profile a San Diego self-defense wizard in Laguna’s Coastal Eddy. Jean Rose would shoot that idea down in a heartbeat. Going to Tijuana for the dog rescue sanctuary and the Fidelito follow-up story were hard enough for Bettina to pull off. She’s not going to get freedom like that now. Not with the timid readers complaining that the Felix and Fidelito stories are violent and don’t matter in Laguna Beach.

However, Bettina thinks, a good story is a good story. It has value. Not every one of them has to be written.

Just lived.

The most interesting thing of all about Dan Strickland is he’s the second person to have identified her dog as Joe, and claimed to have owned him for a year, and wants to see him and buy him back.

First Teddy Delgado’s Joe, and now Dan Strickland’s.

What are the chances that even one of their stories is true?

Or both?

Later she gets another email from Teddy: