The Rescue

13

Late the next morning, Bettina meets Billy Ray Crumley and his brother Arnie at the Cliff restaurant. At Arnie’s request, they get seats way at the end, out of earshot. Felix accepts ice water from a waiter, then curls up under Bettina.

Arnie is a shorter, thicker version of his younger brother, Bettina notes, the stout boyhood baseball catcher of future big-league, kid-brother Billy. They have similar open, easy-to-read faces and pretty brown eyes under heavy brows.

But Bettina knows from Billy that Arnie is a special agent for the Drug Enforcement Administration, working the border beat from Imperial Beach to Yuma. Apparently not an office gig: Arnie is casually dressed in jeans and scuffed cowboy boots, an open-collared white shirt and a worn black corduroy sport coat. A chain with a cross around his neck, a bulky gold watch. He needs a haircut and a shave. Sets his beat-up black cowboy hat on the table crown down and Bettina — an unapologetic hat girl — checks the label: Atwood Marfa, just as she thought.

After some small talk, Arnie gets to his point:

“A dog that looked a lot like yours worked for us a few years ago,” he says. “He was small for a detection dog, but a good nose. No, I mean a great nose. Ran up some impressive numbers that I wish I could share with you. They nicknamed him Midas. His real name was Joe.”

Which hits Bettina like a punch. Reminds herself to inhale.

“You’re trying to tell my Felix is your Joe?”

“Oh, he’s DEA’s Joe, all right.”

Felix sits up and cocks his head at Arnie. He hasn’t looked this focused since leaping onto Dan Strickland.

“Good boy, Joe,” says Arnie with a smirking glance at Bettina.

First he’s Teddy Delgado’s dog, she thinks, then Dan Strickland’s. Both named Joe! Now he’s the DEA’s Joe. Who’s next?

“Cool,” she says, then waits for Arnie to continue, thankful for her sunglasses and native acting skills.

“What’s cool?” says Arnie, taking a sip of his Bloody Mary. “I never worked with Joe directly, being UC. We retired him after four years of work, about average. When I showed them your video, everybody thought Felix was Midas. They sent me to confirm because you’re a friend of Billy’s. Joe would be easy to ID from the number inside his ear.”

“Like I said on the phone, there is no number on his ear,” says Bettina. “Just a scar. I’ll show you.”

On Bettina’s command, Felix sits up and she scratches his ears for a while, then lifts the flap up to reveal the scar.

“He was billed as a Mexican street dog by the clinic vet,” says Bettina, grasping at straws. “That’s where a boy found him, literally, on a street in Mexico. Not a drug-sniffing dog at all. Impossible.”

“He’s DEA property,” says Arnie.

At DEA, Joe looks to Arnie again, all attention.

Arnie shrugs. “Joe looked like a street dog too. Same ears and head as Felix. Same body type. Long legs and tail. Same coat and coloring. In fact, the people who trained him for us speculated that his sire was a Mexican street dog that snuck across the border in Otay Mesa. Which is where Joe was born. They do that all the time, the street dogs. Raid the trash cans and get water from the creek. Knock up the gringa bitches.”

Bettina notes Billy’s sharp glance at his older brother.

“So you’re trying to tell me that Felix might be Joe?”

“Oh, it’s him, all right.”

“Hey, Arnie,” says Billy. “Stop being a jerk and tell us what’s going on.”

“Sure, little brother.” He fiddles with his phone, hands it to Bettina, who shades it with her free hand and looks at the pictures.

“Scroll down,” says Arnie. “There’s six.”

Bettina takes a good hard look at each picture, but she can tell by the second one that her doubts do not apply.

Felix is Joe, all right.

Again.

Her first instinct tells her that Arnie Crumley of the DEA might like to know that a boy named Teddy Delgado raised Joe for the first year of the dog’s life, and is possibly coming to Laguna to try to buy him from her. But Arnie would be very interested to know that one Dan Strickland of Apex Self-Defense claims the dog is named Joe, too, and has belonged to him until a year ago. That he, Strickland, was here in town just yesterday, asking to see Felix.

And, of course, Dan Strickland would want to know that the DEA is asking questions about Joe.

Her second instinct tells her to keep her mouth shut on all counts.

Felix was Joe, she knows, right down to his random ears and the locations of the ovals on withers and back. She sighs and admits as much to obnoxious Arnie.

Arnie levels his Crumley eyes on her. His easily read face is 100 percent judgment. “Has anyone else been asking questions about Felix, Bettina? Other than me?”

Bettina has always been a good liar, so it’s an easy question to answer. “No. No one.”

“You sure?”

“Don’t call her a liar, brother,” says Billy. “You don’t get to do that.”

“Sorry.”

A long, uncomfortable silence. Bettina watches the waves breaking down on Main Beach, sees the gulls wheeling and squabbling over Rock Pile. She looks south to the dim cliffs of Dana Point. Hears the plastic flags of the art gallery snapping in the breeze behind them. Catches Billy studying her and wishes he’d stop.

“Bettina,” says Arnie, “it looks to us like your Felix — the DEA’s retired Joe — was being misused by some very bad actors. I’m relieved to see that he’s happy and well cared for here, by you, Bettina. He’s lucky to have a human like you.”

“You can’t have him.”

“We certainly can. He’s federal property. But we don’t want him. What we do want, is to verify what we now suspect — that he was being used by a drug cartel in Tijuana, where he nearly died that night. Specifically, that Joe was being deployed by the New Generation Tijuana Cartel to rob the Sinaloa Cartel of its drugs and money. We believe that Joe was handled by a New Generation thug known as El Romano — the Roman. To say that he’s a person of interest to us would be an understatement.”

Bettina remembers the clinic’s Dr. María Lucero’s tale of the cartel wars in Tijuana, and the violence back in early February.

“Ms. Blazak, let me cut to another important chase here: if Joe was sniffing drugs and money for the New Generation, that makes him an enemy and envy of the Sinaloans. They might want him for themselves. Or worse, he might be a target to be, well, retired. To you, he’s just a cute little dog, but the cartels get competitive and vengeful with each other. They go to extremes. They love extremes. Joe’s a rainmaker, a good one. And you, young lady, because of your stories and video, have located Joe for them. Sent them an invite. Putting him and you in a potentially dangerous position.”

She exchanges looks with Billy. She knows he’s remembering their words in Tijuana from the day before. Just as she is:

I’m not just telling stories about a dog and a boy.

They’re only parts of a bigger story, Bettina. Or what happened would not have happened.

“Would they come up here?” she says.

Arnie Crumley stares at her flatly, offers a nearly silent huff and a quick shake of head at her absolute ignorance. He folds his hands on the table. “We have credible but unverified information that El Gordo has sent two ranking representatives across the border. A man and a woman. A Thoroughbred horse trainer and a hospitality executive, but cartel operatives through and through. Dispatched to kill or perhaps kidnap your dog? Maybe. They’re money people, not exactly who the Sinaloans would use for simple revenge on the New Generation. So, questions abound but our sources are good. Nobody in Mexico invokes El Gordo’s name lightly. He’s a folk hero and a cold-blooded killer. Alejandro Godoy? You have heard of him, I take it.”

“Everyone has. Gordo means ‘fat’ but he’s not fat.”

Bettina has that hollow-in-the-chest feeling she gets when she paddles into a big wave, or speeds down Coast Highway on her lightweight road bike, the wind whistling through her helmet, the bike’s skinny tires her only connection to Earth. Or when she used to take Sawblade through the barrels back home in Anza Valley, his ton-plus body working under her like a machine. It’s an eye-widening thing, this feeling, and it makes her vision sharp, and it lets time slow down until she locks the moment to herself. Owns it.

“You and Joe should move around if you can,” says Arnie. “Vary your schedule. Stay two or three days with friends or family, then two or three days with others. Out of town would be preferable. Work remotely from wherever you are — you and Joe are exposed in your office on Coast Highway. Motels are cheap and pet friendly these days. Just a few days, until we get a bead on El Gordo’s friends in Laguna. They might not have been sent here regarding Joe. They might not be here at all.”

“Wait, Arnie, what about a safe house?” asks Billy.

“They’re not designed to be occupied for more than a couple of days. We’ll put you in one, but only in a pinch.”

“This isn’t a pinch, brother?”

“Not by DEA standards. It’s a credible suspicion, a rumor — not an actionable threat.”

Bettina sees the anger in Billy’s usually pleasant eyes. “Bettina, we can trade apartments off and on. And I’ll help cover Felix if you need me to.”

Bettina reaches down and runs her hand over her dog’s smooth round head. Feels his ears soft and relaxed as her palm glides over them. Strangely, since his reunion with Dan Strickland yesterday, Felix has been particularly relaxed and affectionate.

“They can’t take him. He’s mine.”

“That’s the spirit,” says Arnie. “I’m going to give you both my secure numbers. Use them. Text is best. Tell me if you see or hear something that doesn’t seem right. Be reasonable, though. If you start feeling like you’re paranoid, you probably are. We’re working on conjecture here. Rumors. Imaginative informants. Call me if you need me, but be reasonable. I can’t answer you a hundred times a day.”

“I understand,” she says. “Felix will protect me.”

“Not necessarily,” says Arnie. “He wasn’t trained for protection or patrol. He might attack if you say Fass, but he might not. Never had the killer spirit, did you, Joe? Dogs can’t tell the difference between the good guys and the bad guys. They just do what they’re told.”

“They sense intent,” says Bettina. “Maybe even character.”

“Oh jeez,” says Arnie. “Dog worshippers.”

Billy looks at her, lips pursed and steady in the eyes. Bettina wonders how can Billy and this asshole can be brothers.

“Let’s get you packed and out of your apartment for a while,” Billy says. “We’ll sit down Jean Rose, tell her you’re fixin’ to work from home — wherever that may be. Don’t worry, Bettina. Felix is going to be fine. You’re going to be fine too. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“I feel like I’m in a story instead of writing them.”

“You’ve felt that way since you rescued Felix.”

She rubs behind Felix’s up-flapped ears the way Billy Ray Crumley and Dan Strickland did. The way she used to do when they had the bird dogs and terriers.

Joe glances back at Arnie and Billy Ray, then turns his pleasured attention to Bettina. After listening to every word of this conversation, he’s sure that she’s Bettina and he’s Billy.

Besides hearing his own name again, the word DEA has conjured in Joe a long chain of memories of Aaron. Some of his memories are good: they were a Team and Joe worked hard for Aaron and DEA, though he was not sure exactly sure which person DEA was. Some memories are bad: Joe remembers going very far to find Teddy, and the great sadness he felt when Teddy wouldn’t come to the door and Aaron leashed him and walked him to his car.

Because in Joe’s dog mind there are not stories, but only one story. There is no beginning, middle or ending. Just one story, ongoing, connected firmly to itself. His story. His People. His Team. There are no surprises to Joe. He knew he’d hear his name again, even if Bettina thought he was Felix. He knows he’ll be with Teddy again and with Dan. He doesn’t want to be with Aaron, or with the mysterious DEA, though they are part of his single, enclosed story.

What Joe feels most strongly now is that he will be with Teddy and Dan again.

And that Bettina might be an important Woman in this story, this world of his experience.