Rachel Alexander 03 - A Hell of a Dog by Carol Lea Benjamin Read Free Book Online Page B

Beryl asked.
    Only two of the guests had paid any attention to us, so both saw us gesture and got up to follow. Once outside the dining room, they cut loose, tearing up and down the hallway, chasing each other as if there were no tomorrow.
    “Let’s take them out for a little air,” I said. “It’ll be safer if we go out together.”
    “I could use a little air myself,” she said. “Not that there wasn’t plenty in there—all of it hot, though.” But then she looked at her watch. “Where does the time go?” she said. “A quick piddle for you, my sweetheart,” she said, addressing the terrier and not me, “and then off to our room. I’ve a call to make before it gets much later. And then to bed.”
    It was nearly eleven, and we were due to meet for tracking at six. Still, I wondered if I ought to go back inside. Had they been arguing about food training, I’d have stayed. That could get deadly. But an argument about tracking wasn’t going to go anywhere. In the morning, after Chip’s demo, everyone would still believe what they believed tonight, no one’s opinion altered, no harm done, except to the possibility of camaraderie, just as if they’d been arguing about religion or politics.
    Beryl and I walked out of the hotel onto Central Park West. Cecilia went straight to the curb. A moment later, Beryl scooped her up and carried her back inside.
    I headed north, toward the Dakota, Dashiell running on ahead, then waiting for me at the corner. At Seventy-second
    Street I stopped and looked up at the turrets standing out against the moonlit sky. Then, thinking of the astonishment that must have been on John Lennon’s face in die last conscious moment of his life, I turned back toward the Ritz, Dashiell close at my side.



WE SAW THE TODAY SHOW

    W hen I passed the Truman Salon, I could hear their voices. As I was contemplating going back inside, Woody Wright opened the door and came out, followed by his flashy brindle boxer bitch, her tail docked but her ears natural.
    “They’re still going strong,” he said, holding the door for me.
    “Had enough?” I asked.
    “Years ago.” He let the door close. “I thought you left the business, Rachel. I haven’t seen your ad for a long time.”
    “Oh, lying low,” I said. “Working on referrals and trying to write a book.”
    “That’s definitely the way to go. Do a little Oprah, get a big reputation, host your own TV show. I guess that’s what Bucky’s aiming for.”
    “How about you?”
    He ran his hand through his short, curly gray hair. “I don’t think so, Rachel. I’m happiest when I’m outside, working the dogs. Writing, that’s too scary for me.” He put a warm hand on my arm and gave it a squeeze. “See you in the morning.”
    I watched him walking away, Rhonda’s cute little tail pointing straight up at the ceiling and then suddenly wagging furiously from side to side like a miniature metronome. She began sneezing, too. Woody must have just asked her if she wanted to go out.
    I looked down at Dashiell, who was looking back at me. As soon as he had my eye, he looked at the door to the Truman Salon. I guess he needed to see if Betty was still inside.
    Alan was gone. I would be too if I had to get up before five. But Boris, who also had to get up an hour and a half before the rest of us, was still there, his cigar butt smoldering in an ashtray, “wodka” in his hand instead of brandy.
    I saw Betty, but no Chip. Audrey was gone. So was Tracy. And as I joined the party, Sam got up to leave. A tired-looking waiter asked me if I wanted a brandy. I nodded—when in Rome and all that—and sat back in my chair, listening to Bucky King, who was still going strong. Some people will do that as long as they have an audience, even of one.
    “ ‘So,’ Brad said, ‘does he bite?’ ” Bucky was saying. “And I said, ‘Not now, pally. He’s a borzoi. The only thing he wants in his mouth is caviar.’ ”
    He took a sip of brandy.
    “Truth