The Best American Mystery Stories 2005

The driver of the Cadillac backed it up slightly and ran over the signal bell hose again. The bell rang in the stillness. The driver opened the door of the car and got out. He was in his middle forties. He had dark hair and he was getting thick in the middle. He wore a white shirt with french cuffs and onyx links that were too large. He wore a red tie that was too shiny. He had left his suit coat in the car; the pants were dark blue and well-cut. They did not look appropriate with his brown jodhpur boots. He wore wraparound mirror sunglasses and a Texas Instruments calculator watch. He ran his right hand through his hair, making it stand up. He put his fists on his hips and stared at the garage. He slammed the door of the car and started toward the garage doors.

When the driver was about eight feet from the doors, a very large chow-chow emerged with immense dignity. The dog had a mane and a black tongue. It stood half-in, half-out of the space between the doors and slavered. It looked at the driver with interest, as though it had not had a square meal in some time.

“Nice boy,” the driver said politely. He continued to approach the doors. The dog continued to stare at him. The driver reached a point about six feet from the doors. The dog roared and lunged at him, rearing up on its hind legs. It was snubbed up by a chain with half-inch links. The dog sat down. The driver backed up. “Nice boy,” the driver said. The dog hung its black tongue out and slavered, measuring the driver.

“Halloo,” the driver said to the building. The dog panted. “Halloo,” the driver said to the building.

The dog lurched backward, jerked off its front feet, and vanished into the building.

“Is it OK to come in?” the driver said. There was no reply. The driver advanced tentatively toward the doors. He peered around the edge of the one that was ajar. He went inside. The interior was dim and it took him a moment to regain his vision. Dead ahead there was an old man in a khaki cardigan and a dark blue wool ski hat. He was sitting in an old maroon armchair. There was an old floor lamp to the right of the armchair. There was a kerosene heater next to the armchair. It was stiflingly hot in the garage. To the left there was a double rack of new tires. To the left there was a double rack of new batteries. Behind the man in the armchair there was a wooden case, fronted and topped with glass, filled with candies. The dog sat beside the man in the armchair. The dog was still slavering.

“Careful,” the old man said. “Grease pit, front of you.”

The driver looked down. There was a lubrication pit in front of him.

“Help you?” the old man said. He was reading something, or had been. The magazine was open in his lap. It was open to a double-page spread of a naked woman.