8
Street Dogs

“I’m not offended in the least,” Wylie said as he walked out of the office with Mr. Horum. “Do you know anybody who might be interested, though? It’s a real dandy of a trick.”

“What trick? Can I see?” Bronson asked, closing the register as they approached.

Wylie chuckled. “It’s very boring,” he said. “I’m sure a kid wouldn’t be—”

“You kidding him?” Mr. Horum said. “It great trick. Special vest for pulling magician away without audience seeing.”

“The Salvage Vest?” Bronson asked.

Wylie put his briefcase on the counter then walked to the restroom at the back of the store.

“Enough business.” Wylie said. “Let me get washed up and we’ll go find a food cart. You ever had a real street dog before?”

“Yeah, but I like them,” he said.

The bathroom door closed. Bronson leaned in close to Mr. Horum.

“The harness… what did he tell you about it?” he asked.

“He show Horum plans for special vest. Pull man out quick, like bullet. It no let him get hurt either. Protective stuff.”

“I knew it,” Bronson said, glancing at the briefcase next to him on the counter. “He’s selling my dad’s tricks off.”

“How he get your dad’s tricks? I knew he was thief. He come to wrong shop you betcha,” Mr. Horum said.

“My dad left them to him in the will, but he wasn’t supposed to sell them. Mr. Morgan must be in a lot of trouble to do that. Him and my dad were friends after all.”

“Maybe he not same guy he was when he knew your pop.”

“Maybe not,” Bronson said. “Did he leave any information with you about the vest? Anything I could look at? I’d hate to make trouble for him if it’s all some big misunderstanding.”

“He left big stack on Horum’s desk. I get them for you.”

As Mr. Horum left Bronson placed his hands on the briefcase. He looked back at the bathroom door then slid back the latches on either side of the case. It clicked open revealing a thick binder, a pistol, and several loose sheets of paper.

A torn sheet of blue typing paper was tucked into the front of the binder. Words lined the ragged edge of the page. A few fragments. One stuck out to Bronson: APPROACH LIBERTY PI— Liberty Pier?

An orange flash— Another flash forward. The bathroom door opens. Wylie steps out. Sees Bronson with his hands in the briefcase. Snatches the case. Runs out the door—

And then the vision left him. Bronson snatched the paper and shoved it in his pocket, clicking the lid of the case shut as the bathroom door opened.

“You sure you’re hungry, buddy?” Wylie asked. “You look a little sick.”

Bronson felt his forehead. His skin was wet and cold. His breath quick and loud. He sucked in some air then put on a smile.

“You aren’t getting out of buying me lunch that easy,” Bronson said. “Hold on, let me tell the boss.”

Bronson peeked his head into the office. Mr. Horum dug through an ocean of papers on his desk.

“Hey, I’m going out with Mr. Morgan for awhile.”

“You want I come too?” Mr. Horum said.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Mr. Horum” Bronson said, leaning over to pick up his backpack off the office floor. “If I can’t handle it I know just the dog who can.”

“What’ll it be, pal?” said the vendor in the large rolling cart. Wylie and Bronson were placing an order, standing to the side of the window to avoid the heat waves rolling out of the small structure.

“Two of your finest chili dogs,” Wylie said. “Grilled onions. Mustard.” He paused, leaning his head into the cart. “And extra sweet peppers on mine please.”

“You got it. Two dogs, coming right up,” the vendor said, winking at Wylie. He grabbed a set of tongs, took the metal lid off a pot of boiling water, then dug around until he found a hot dog split down the middle. He used the odd end of the tongs to pull a drawer out of the wall then plopped the hot dog into one of the steaming buns inside.

“So see anything interesting since you got here?” Bronson asked.

“Haven’t had the chance to go sightseeing just yet. Know anyplace good?”

The vendor tossed two paper bags on the counter then hit a small bell next to the register.

“Here ya’ go, buddy. Sweet peppers are gonna be a second. Wait over there.”

“Um, are you sure?,” Wylie asked, digging through one of the bags. “They told me the peppers would be here.”

“Look, they’re on the way” said the vendor. “All the peppers you want. Now step off to the side. I got folks waiting.”

Bronson and Wylie sat on the curb. Wylie handed over one of the bags. “So you have anything you want to know about your dad? Seems like we have some time here.”

Bronson put the bag down and thought for a moment. “Did he ever mention anything weird? Like crazy weird?” Bronson asked. Bad guy or not, he might know something about the powers my dad gave me before he died, Bronson thought.

“Weird? Hmm…” Wylie said. “He used to have these attacks. We’d be standing there talking like everything was normal then he’d drift off. He went almost three hours one time. Staring off into space and mumbling all sorts of stuff. Maybe the job was going to his head. I remember one time, after a show in Portland—”

“Sweet pepper coming up in a second. Don’t go nowhere,” the vendor yelled.

“Seems pretty weird they’d give you the hotdog without the toppings,” Bronson said.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Wylie said.

“So, you were saying? About Portland?”

“This’ll be up any minute. Your food is going to get cold. Don’t wait to dig in on my account.”

Bronson took his food out of the bag. Big gooey strips of onions gobbed down the sides of the bun, staining the white paper wrapper. He took a big bite of the hot dog, licking a bit of mustard off his knuckle when he noticed a commotion down the street.

Chattering voices hit his ears, accompanied by the roar of an engine. Wylie jumped to his feet. He turned back to Bronson as a large sedan appeared behind him, swerving around the street at twice the speed limit.

As the driver approached Wylie hid his face with his hand. The driver saw him then spun the wheel toward the curb.

“Run, Bronson. Now!” Wylie yelled grabbing the boy’s arm, pulling him away from the curb, the sedan barreling toward them.

 

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