Dog Days

A Spot Of Trouble

Larry Haskins blocked the morning sun with his right hand and tried to spot the fly ball that was dropping from the sky. He caught sight of it high up, almost blending with a small patch of summer clouds.

"Got it!" Larry shouted. He brought his glove into position and dashed forward. There weren't many things as wonderful as the smack of a hardball landing dead canter in the web of a welloiled glove. It was especially wonderful because Adam Felcher had hit the ball. Last inning, Adam had caught Larry's line drive just before it would have sailed over the fence.

This was payback time---bottom of the ninth, two outs, the typing run on second.

Larry glanced away from the ball long enough to check the infield. The kid on second had reached third. Adam had rounded first and was tearing toward second. It didn't matter how far he got. He's be out as soon as Larry made the play.

Plunging like a diving hawk, the ball was headed right for Larry's glove. Around the infield, his teammates yelled for him to make the catch. He turned out the voices. Nothing existed in the but the ball and his glove.

"Lar-r-r-ry!" A frightened shout ripped the air behind him. Startled, Larry glanced over his shoulder. His six-year-old brother, Paul, ran to a field from a hole in the fence. "Larry, come with me! You have to come!" he yelled.

With a sudden rush of panic, Larry realized he'd taken his eyes off the ball. He flung his arm up. The ball hit the top of his glove and grazed off. It struck the ground, bounced against a rock, and skittered across the grass like a frightened rabbit. 

Larry chased the ball. From cheers that rose behind him, he knew that the tying run had already scored. He snatched the ball with his bare hand and spun,  making the throw to Mark Tilly at just as Adam reached third. The throw was perfect. Mark caught it, turned toward the plate, and hurled a bullet to the catcher. Adam slid into home---just ahead of the throw.

"Safe!" the kid behind the plate called.

The whole time, Paul kept shouting, "Larry! Larry! Larry..." Larry glared at his brother. "What are you doing in town?" "Mom sent me to the store for a spool of thread," Paul said. Then go to the store," Larry said. "They don't sell thread here. They sell it there." He pointed past the field, down Washington Avenue, toward the row of little shops. "And stay on this side of the street."

 "But, Larry, I think someone needs help." Paul grabbed Larry's wrist and started pulling. "Someone's in trouble. You've got to come." 

"No," Larry said. "Were about to start another game." He was looking forward to getting back up to the plate. This time nobody would catch what he hit. 

"It's important!" Paul stared up at Larry with eyes that seemed to say, You're my big brother and you can fix anything. Then he yanked at Larry's hand like he was trying to pluck an apple from a tree.  "C'mon pleeease!"

"All right, quit tugging." Larry couldn't refuse that pleading lost-puppy expression. And he realized there'd be no peace until he found out what Paul wanted. "I'll be right back," he called to his friends.

 Carlos Montoya, who'd just arrived at the field, rushed in to fill Larry's spot. "Take your time, Larry. I've got it covered." 

"This way," Paul said, climbing back through the hole in the outfield fence and trotting down Larch Street toward Washington Avenue.

Larry followed his brother, wondering what silly misunderstanding it would be this time. Last week, when they'd gone to the park with their parents, Paul yelled that he saw an alligator in the pond. The gator turned out to be a log. Sure, there was green moss on the log and rough bark that looked a little like a reptile's skin, but it was still nothing more than a wet log, which wasn't surprising since there wasn't a wild alligator within a thousand miles of where they lived. 

Before that, there'd been burglars in the attic, a Martian in the backyard, a Tyrannosaurus in the woods, monsters in every in every possible hiding place throughout the house, goblins on the roof, and about fifty thousand other terrors---all springing from Paul's unstoppable imagination. He seemed to find something new to shout every time he wandered away from where he was supposed to be.

As Larry followed his little brother along Washington Avenue, he wondered what could possibly happen on this quiet street in the middle of this quiet town. There wasn't any sign of a person in trouble---just a bunch of small stores and a couple of office buildings.

"Here... in they alley," Paul said when they'd gone halfway down the block. He dashed ahead, and then glanced back.

Larry caught up with his brother and looked into the alley that ran between Reader's Roost Bookstore and LaGaurdia's Diner, just half a block away in the shop where Paul was supposed to have gone. The narrow alley went from the sidewalk all the way to the back of the shops. 

"What are you talking about? I don't see anyone," Larry said. Then he noticed something near the end of the alley---some thing that took him by surprise.

"Nice dog," Larry said. He stood a while, admiring the animal that was half-hidden in the shadows. The dog looked young, maybe a year or two old, about the size of a shepherd, but with a coat of short black hair. No collar or tags. Could be part black Lab, Larry thought. He knew every breed of dog on the planet. Besides baseball, there wasn't anything in the world he liked as much as dogs. Sometimes he thought he might even like dogs a little more than baseball. A ball never wagged it's tail when it saw him. A bat never kept him company when he was sad.

Then Larry remembered why he'd let himself get dragged away from his baseball game. "I don't see anyone."

"No, not there," Paul pointed to the left side of the alley. "There! Look on the wall. Way in the back." 

As Larry scanned the wall, his stomach tightened. A big red stain, five feet above the ground, was splattered against the side of the bookstore.

Still pointing to the spot, Paul said, "I think somebody got killed."