Tommy and the Talking Dog | Page 2

and held out
his hand. Tommy shook it and backed away. "How in the world are
you?"
"Fine," Tommy said. "How come you know who I am?"
"The shoes, son, the shoes! Now what can I do for you?"
Tommy hoisted himself up into a chair that was too big for him. He
noticed a funny smell and sneaked a quick sniff at his hand. The man
had left some kind of aftershave on it. It was so strong it made
Tommy's eyes water. He rubbed the hand on his jeans.
"Do you know anything about a treasure?" he asked.
"A treasure," the man said, sitting back down. Tommy could now see
his mustache and the way he'd combed his hair over the bald spot on
top of his head. He wasn't that old, but he had circles under his eyes,
and his smile wiggled like it wanted to come off. "Well, I may not

know where to find a chest of gold dubloons, but I can tell you how to
get rich." He leaned across the desk and whispered, "Superconductors."
Tommy pictured a man in red-and-blue tights taking tickets on a train.
"What?"
"Superconductors," the man said. "They're like metal, you know, how it
carries electricity? But they do it better and they're very, very cold ...
well, hell. I don't know that much about how they work. But I'll tell you,
there's a fortune there!" He slapped the desk. "A fortune!"
A little box on the desk buzzed. He punched a button and said, "Yes?"
A woman's voice said, "Mr. Connell for you on line seven, sir." She
sounded like she was trying to whisper and sing at the same time.
"Stall the old fart, would you honey? And say, don't forget our business
meeting tonight. I got us a room over at the motel." The man winked at
Tommy, using his whole face, and punched another button on the box.
A picture frame on the desk showed a woman and two boys. The
woman didn't look as though she belonged to the voice in the little box.
"Not a word to my wife, now, Tommy," the man said. "You know how
it is."
"No," Tommy said. "How is it?"
Before the man could answer, the box buzzed again.
"I'm sorry, sir, Mr. Connell says it's urgent."
The man grabbed the telephone and punched at a blinking light.
"Goddammit, J.C., what the hell is eating your ass now? ... You
what? ... You what? All of them?" The man put the phone back and
fumbled at the drawer of his desk. His face was the color of cement.
"Superconductors," he whispered, and started putting tiny white pills
under his tongue.
"I -- I better go now," Tommy said. The man didn't answer and Tommy

hurried outside.
The sun was setting. The world looked very tired and dusty. "Hey,
dog?" Tommy called. There was no sign of it. Slowly Tommy went to
the next door and opened it.
A woman lay on the bed. She was dressed kind of like the cheerleaders
on the football games his father watched on Sunday afternoons. She
had shorts made out of silver material and a thin red shirt tied above her
stomach. When she sat up Tommy could see her breasts wobble under
the thin cloth. They were very big, and drooped when she leaned
forward.
"Hi, Tommy," she said. "Find the treasure yet?" She lit a cigarette from
the butt of one that was in the ashtray.
"No," Tommy said. She had a dry, scratchy voice that was very sad.
"Who are you?"
"Me? I'm a hooker, Tommy."
"A hooker? What's a hooker?"
The woman shook her head. Her hair was glued in place with too much
hairspray, and she wore more makeup than Tommy had ever seen on
one person before. "A hooker is a woman who ... well, she tries to
cheer up men that aren't very happy at home."
"Could you cheer me up?"
"You're a little young, Tommy. It usually doesn't work anyway. See,
grownups aren't very happy people a lot of the time. They look for
power or money or sex, and when that doesn't work, they usually just
sit around and watch TV."
"There isn't any treasure, is there?"
"I don't know, Tommy. I didn't find it."

"What's that?"
The woman had tied a belt around her arm, and was filling a
hypodermic needle. "It's like medicine, Tommy. I think you'd better go
now."
"Yeah," Tommy said.
It was almost dark outside. Tommy sat on the curb and took off the red
All-Stars and put his own shoes back on. "Hey, dog!" he shouted. "Hey!
You can have your stupid shoes back!" There was no answer. Tommy
threw the shoes toward the motel as hard as he could.