“Ruby, drop it!” He tugged at the leash, but the dog ignored him.
His voice took on the stern tone of a disapproving parent. “Right now, young lady.”
Ruby crouched down and gave a short, gleeful bark.
“Here.” Kerry picked up a plastic bag, leaned down, and deftly extricated the chipmunk from Ruby’s grasp, then dropped it in the trash barrel.
“Oh God,” John moaned. “Do chipmunks carry rabies?”
“Doubtful,” Kerry said, laughing. “You don’t want to know the gross dead stuff our dogs find back home. Possums, squirrels, rats…”
“Rats!” He clutched his chest in horror. “I can’t.”
Ruby was sniffing the base of the trash barrel, whining and straining at her leash.
“Let’s go,” John said. “I’m taking you straight to Pups and Pearls to get disinfected. See you Saturday, Kerry. And don’t forget to tell Murphy to bring that dobro.”
chapter 9
Wednesday morning, Kerry was drinking coffee, sitting at her folding chair on the sidewalk, when a huge tractor trailer pulled up across the intersection. A worker in brown coveralls jumped out and plopped a set of traffic cones in front and back of the truck.
A pickup pulled up and parked behind the trailer, and two more men emerged, one tall and thin in quilted navy coveralls, the other shorter and stouter, in jeans and a faded gray sweatshirt. The men began unloading stacks of plywood and power tools and swiftly began erecting scaffolding on the sidewalk outside Happy Days, the neighborhood bodega.
The whine of the power saws and nail guns soon roused Murphy.
He stepped out of the camper, dressed only in his long johns, and blinked in the bright sunlight. “What the hell’s going on?”
Kerry pointed at the construction project across the intersection. “That. I can’t quite figure out what they’re doing over there.”
“I can.” Murphy’s expression was grim. He climbed back into thecamper, and when he reappeared five minutes later, he was dressed and ready for action.
He bolted across the street, dodging cars and buses as he ran.
“Hey!” he shouted. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The tall thin man turned, grinned, and nudged the chunky one.
“You can’t set up here,” Murphy shouted, his voice cutting through the noise of traffic. “This is our block. Our corner. Always has been.”
The thin man’s voice was surprisingly high and shrill. “Not no more, buddy. You don’t own this block. So beat it.” He took a step forward, brandishing a two-by-four.
Murphy stood in the street, with his hands on his hips, glaring at the crew, until a cab blared its horn and he beat a reluctant retreat back across the street.
“Who are those guys, and what are they doing?” Kerry asked.
“They’re the Brody brothers,” Murphy said, slumping down onto his lawn chair. “They own a bunch of tree stands in Brooklyn and the Upper West Side. They’re wholesalers, don’t know a Scotch pine from Scotch tape. Setting up over there is no accident. They’ve been scheming to take over our block for years now.”
Kerry sighed, picked up a broom, and began tidying the booth. Murphy yawned. “I’m gonna try and grab some more z’s.”
“Okay.”
The Brody brothers had been busy. By mid-afternoon, neon orange poster boards with crude hand-lettering were tacked on each corner of their makeshift stand.
FRESHEST TREES IN THE CITY—$75
FREE DELIVERY!
NO TREE OVER $100!
