Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 13, Mid-December 1993

Rube sipped and glanced around. The tiny dance floor was empty except for a pair of young people in cowboy hats. They nuzzled each other’s necks as they danced close, their bodies wiggling like upright snakes in some intricate mating dance. Beyond them, in the back, old men sat hunched together in one of the booths. Their clothes were rough-hewn, and their faces were bearded. They talked in low tones, like conspirators, but their whispers carried.

“It’s that po-lution, from the big chemical plants — you know there’s a power plant right next to the Morro Bay Fishery?”

“Well, whatever, the fish ain’t running. It’s take tourists out or starve. On bad days I begin to think I’d rather starve...”

Their accents were flat and hard, no accents at all.

Rube sipped his beer. The music played again. The same couples danced.

Maybe coming out had been a mistake. What was he doing? Looking for clues? Maybe the sheriff was right. Tend your own garden and stay out of his.

Something big and furry and yellow caught his eye.

Rube turned on the bar stool. In the golden light from the bar, the dog’s eyes looked feral and ancient and judging. He sat like a huge, fur-covered lump just outside the door — sat way back on his haunches — but his eyes seemed to search the smoky room.

Rube remembered the way the big dog had worried the girl’s hand. As though he could bring her back to life if he could just pull her from the clump of seaweed.

The boogie brass rumbled through the bar’s stereo system, a sound so loud Rube thought he saw the smoke quiver with the vibrations.

The dog whimpered.

“You wanna ’nother brew?” Smell of garlic laced with rum.

“No, thanks,” Rube said, turning to the barkeep. “You know that dog?”

“Personally?”

Rube wasn’t in the mood. It was nearly midnight and he was suddenly more keyed up than ever. He needed to do something that would at least allow him to go home and sleep. Just one little fact would do it. Such as — why the dog sat there.

The bartender started to turn away, then changed his mind. Almost wistfully, Rube thought, the big man with the garlic breath looked at the yellow dog. “That’s... that used to be Betty and Jesse’s mutt.”

As though that was enough in the way of explanation.

“I don’t understand ‘used to be,’ ” Rube said softly.

The barkeep played with his bar rag, mopping at a damp spot. When he looked up, his eyes were redder than before, as though something painful had kicked him from the inside of his skull.

“That girl you found this morning... her name was Betty Sturgis. She was engaged to a guy named Jesse, a local fisherman. Buddy was their dog.” His eyes had gone deeper now, seeking out whatever hurt inside. “The dog used to wait for them out there — just like he is now.”

Rube stared stupidly at what was left of his brew. Then he asked what seemed the logical question. “Why doesn’t Jesse take him home?”

The bartender gulped at something invisible in his throat. “You don’t know why?”

Rube shook his head. “I wouldn’t ask if I did.”

The dog whimpered.

The bartender seemed to make a decision, and his face turned angry and red. “Damned tourist. Drink your beer and go on back to L.A. or wherever you came from.”

“I’m not a tourist,” Rube said softly.

But the bartender was beyond reasoning. “Then you should know, dammit.”

Rube sat stiffly.

“Jesse’s dead,” he said. “Been dead a week now.”

Rube felt like someone had clubbed him. “I’m sorry,” he finally managed, but the bartender had already turned and gone.

Rube stood and stared past the bar, then walked out into the night.

The dog stumbled up to all fours, tongue lolling.

“So we meet again,” Rube said in a whisper.

The dog whimpered, then shut his mouth and followed Rube down the sidewalk.

Every time Rube stopped, the dog stopped behind him. Rube finally turned and pointed back down the street. “Go home, Buddy. Do you hear me?”

Rube realized the stupidity of his words. The dog no longer had a home. His owners were dead.

The knowledge haunted Rube as he walked toward his house. The street forked here, the left tongue of the fork slanting off at a steep angle that rose to Saint Anne’s Cemetery. Up there, above the town, was a small wooden chapel painted white, its stark crucifix like some Celtic dagger that hung askew above the double doors. A big spotlight lit the front of the chapel. Like a used car lot, Rube thought painfully.

Rube was staying to the right, trying to shake off the night’s bad feelings, when the dog growled behind him. The growl was sinister, and Rube tensed, thinking perhaps the dog was going to run up his heels and take away some hide. Instead, the dog blew past Rube so fast his pants cuffs rose in the breeze. Rube watched as the snarling Labrador streaked up the hill.