I step out of the car, check to make sure I have my gun and taser. I nod towards my cell, which Oscar is still holding. “If I’m not back in 30, call your dad.”
He looks at the phone. “Is it in here?”
“Yeah. In the List app under possible paydays.”
His eyes widen. “Are you kidding me?”
I grin. “Yeah. I am. He’s in my contacts.”
“You’re funny,” he mutters in a way that makes me think he’s lying.
But whatever. “Brambles, let’s go.”
Brambles jumps out joyfully, then looks expectantly back at Oscar his tail wagging enthusiastically.
“He stays.”
Brambles sits.
“Not you! Oscar.”
He cocks his head.
“Can you believe he’s a Mensa candidate?” I say to Oscar.
“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Oscar replies.
I lock and close the car door and then mime for Oscar to lock his. He rolls his eyes, but I’m pretty good at charades and he thumbs down the button.
“Let’s go,” I say to Brambles, who gets to his feet and walks next to me, casting a woeful glance over his shoulder at Oscar.
“Forget about him,” I tell him. “You need to stay focused. We bring Toper in, you get a new frisbee.”
We round the corner of the building and stroll to the lobby door, which is just a hole in the building. Once again I wonder why rich-boy Toper lives in such a dump. Maybe I’ll ask him after I get him handcuffed and in the backseat of the car.
The elevator doors are wide open, but it’s out of service, which doesn’t matter, because Brambles is claustrophobic and also, because there’s a guy wearing a bowler hat inside it, laying on the floor. He’s not moving and my conscience tells me to make sure he’s alive, but if I do and he isn’t, then I’ll get delayed and someone else will scoop my payday.
Fortunately, my dilemma is resolved as bowler hat guy lets out a big snore.
“Dodged that one, didn’t we?” I say to Brambles who lolls his tongue in reply.
We pick our way up the stairs to the third floor, me leading, Brambles following. When we get to 303, I test the handle, but I already know it’s unlocked because there’s a hole where the bolt used to be.
I ease open the door and peer inside.
Calling it a shithole would be generous. It smells like bodily fluids, spoiled food, and pineapple. The paint is peeling, the floor is littered with clothes, garbage and what appears to be a decomposing rodent the size of a cat.
The three-legged coffee table is propped up by a six-pack of shit beer and it has drug paraphernalia scattered across it. The bathroom door is missing and a quick glance inside to make sure Toper isn’t sleeping in the tub makes the bile rise in my throat.
“Pee in there at your own risk,” I warn Brambles.
He likes to live on the edge, so he lifts his leg and aims for the toilet. Misses of course.
The bedroom door is wide open and when I peek inside, I find Toper sprawled face down across a stained futon, snoring like he’s trying to win a world record. His head is shaved and he’s so thin his spine is jutting out from his back. He’s got a bunch of gang tattoos which are easy to see because the only thing he’s wearing is black boxer briefs.
I glance at Brambles who glances back at me. It’s go time. I pull out my gun as my canine partner squeezes by me, knocking me into the doorframe.
“What the hell is wrong with you!” I hiss as I regain my balance. I’m supposed to bag the payday, he’s supposed to have my back. It’s the way we’ve always done it.
