"Mike Resnick - Dog In The Manger" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

In five seconds it had gone from $150 a day to somewhere around $400. I figured I might
even be able to afford a display ad in next year's Yellow Pages.
“Did you ship her off?” I asked at last.
“He pays the bills, so when I couldn't talk him out of it I told my kennel girl to send her home
last weekend while I was at a show.”
“Then what's the problem?”
“When I came home Sunday night none of the dogs I had left behind had been cleaned or
fed, and the phone was ringing off the hook. It was Nettles, demanding to know where
Baroness was. She was supposed to arrive there at dinnertime, but when the plane landed
she wasn't on it.” He paused long enough to light still another cigarette. “Kennel help is never
very dependable, so I just assumed the girl got to the airport too late to get her on the plane
and simply booked her on a later flight. As for her not being home, hell, she probably has a
boyfriend stashed away somewhere in Dayton or Covington.”
“And now it's Wednesday and she hasn't turned up yet?”
He nodded. “Neither her nor Baroness. Nettles called twice more Sunday night and accused
me of purposely missing the flight so he'd miss her season and I could continue showing her,
and—”
“Have you ever done that before?”
“Once, when I was much younger and really needed the money. Not recently. Anyway, he's
suing me for the value of the dog.”
“How much would that be?”
“About $25,000, maybe a little less.”
I hated to ask the next question, but I had to. “Aren't you covered for it? It seems to me that a
man in your profession would have insurance to protect him against a valuable dog dying or
being stolen.”
“Of course I am!” snapped Lantz.
For which thank God, I thought. So the problem was real and not imagined.
“Then why not let your policy pay for the dog?”
“Because I got another call from Nettles this morning. He's made an official complaint to the
American Kennel Club. He wants my AKC privileges revoked.”
“Any chance?” I asked.
“A damned good one,” said Lantz. “I've been suspended on bad conduct charges a couple of
times, mostly for bitching too loud about what I thought was rigged judging. There are people
in the organization who are just waiting to land on me with both feet.”
“What's the kennel girl's name?”
“Alice Dent,” he said.
“Do you have a photo of her?”
“I can get one.”
“So basically what you want me to do is find Alice and—”
“I don't give a damn about Alice Dent!” screamed Lantz. “Just find the dog! I am 45
goddamned years old. I've been a pro handler since I was 18. It's the only trade I know. I've
got to get this sonofabitch off my goddamned back!”
“So at this point, you don't much care if Baroness is dead or alive, as long as we can prove
that whatever happened to her wasn't your fault. Is that correct?”
He nodded, snubbed out his cigarette, and poured yet another drink from my rapidly-
diminishing supply of Jim Beam.
“Have you reported this to the police?” I asked.
“Of course!”
Thank God, Version 2.0: he'd talked to the cops and he still wanted a private detective.
“What was their reaction?”