Part 33 (1/2)

As I studied it, it was definitely too small to be an aardvark. But whatever it was, it was a lapping fool. It lapped Patricia Utley's face very intently.

”This is Rosie,” Patricia Utley said.

She was turning her face to avoid losing all her makeup.

”That's great,” I said. ”Rosie is not an aardvark, is she?”

”No, of course not. She's a miniature bullterrier.”

”That was going to be my next guess,” I said. ”Like Spuds McKenzie in the beer ads.”

”I don't watch beer ads,” Patricia Utley said.

She stood and Rosie turned and wiggled over to me and rolled on her back.

”She wants you to rub her stomach,” Patricia Utley said.

I sat back down on the ha.s.sock and bent over and rubbed Rosie's stomach, which was quite pink.

”She likes it if you say rub rub rub, while you're doing it.”

”I can't do that,” I said. ”You'd tell.”

”Rub, rub, rub,” Patricia Utley said for me.

She brought her sherry to the blue leather couch and sat on the edge of it, her knees together, her hands, holding the sherry, folded quietly in her lap. Rosie turned immediately over onto her feet, trotted to the couch, and elevated onto it without any apparent effort, as if somehow she had jumped with all four feet equally. She lay down beside Patricia Utley, put her head on Patricia Utley's lap, and stared at me with her almond-shaped black eyes that had no more depth than two slivers of obsidian.

”And now you are looking for this Rugar person?”

”Yes.”

”I don't know anyone of that name.”

”He works through a lawyer,” I said. ”Or he used to.”

”Is he based in New York?”

”I think so.”

”Do you know anything else about him?”

”Rugar or the lawyer?”

”Either,” Patricia Utley said.

She was smoothing the fur on Rosie's tail, which looked like it belonged on a short Dalmatian. Rosie would occasionally open her mouth and close it again.

”He's American born, worked for the Israelis for a while. He's in his forties or fifties. Tall, athletic, gray hair, gray skin, seems to dress all in gray. Rugar probably isn't his real name. Very expensive, very covert.”

”And if I wished to hire him I would go to a lawyer?”

”A particular lawyer. Who would set up an appointment with Rugar.”

”And you don't know who the lawyer is?”

”No, h.e.l.l, I don't even know if his name is Rugar.”

Patricia Utley ran the tip of her tongue along her lower lip. I waited. She sipped her sherry and swallowed and repeated the tongue-on-lower-lip movement. Rosie kept looking at me. Occasionally she wagged her tail.

”I don't know of any such lawyer,” she said finally.

”Where would you go if you needed someone killed?” I said.

”I have never had to consider that,” she said. ”Bribery has always been entirely serviceable.”

”And so much more genteel,” I said.

She smiled and sipped her sherry again.

”Will you be in the City long?”

”Depends how long this takes,” I said.

”You would be amazed at the diversity of my client list,” she said.

”No, I wouldn't,” I said.

She smiled and made an a.s.senting gesture with her head.

”No, probably you wouldn't be. But I have contact with a vast range of rich and important people. If this man, who might be named Rugar, is truly expensive, my clientele would be his market.”

”Can you ask around without being too direct?”

She gave me a look as flat and impenetrable as Rosie's.

”Of course you can,” I said.

She smiled.

”Where are you staying?” she said.

”Days Inn on the West Side.”

She wrinkled her nose. ”Really?”

”I'm on my own time,” I said, ”and Susan's not with me.”