The Taking of Tiffany
By HUGH LESSIG
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Prologue: June 4, 1935. 10:05 a.m.

She came into the newsroom looking like new money: blond hair swirled high, too much jewelry, makup packed tight around her eyes. She did a panicky two-step past the receptionist desk and walked into the midst of us, high heels smacking hardwood. 

She never saw my desk -- or maybe she did and what happened next was an act.

She struck my desk with her hip. Her right hip, I believe, although I was trying to keep my eyes on my typewriter. Her purse hit the floor and broke apart like the Titanic, spreading its contents in a wide circle before me. I looked up and noted a makeup case, the smell of peppermint candy, a rolling container of lipstick. 

I imagined the lipstick was dark red, maybe black.

"Well?" She said. "Aren't you going to help me?"

I helped her with my eyes as she bent over to retrieve her things. Then, with a wistful sigh, I returned to my Underwood to finish the ass end of a 25-word lead on the mayor's latest bout of electro-shock therapy. 

"Aren't you a reporter? I need to see a reporter immediately."

My typewriter chattered back: Lady, This is deadline. Fool not with me. Eventually, her perfume invaded my space and I turned around. I noticed for the first time her long neck and delicate hands. She had bones like a bird. 

"When I say immediately," she said, "that's exactly what I mean." 

"Are you being chased?" I asked, not unpleasantly.

"No."

"Are you shot?"

"No."

"Do you want to shoot someone?"

"No! Of course not."

"Then sit in a chair and someone will get to you. In the meantime, try not to get in the way. The Frisco Foil is a daily, not a weekly, and we happen to be crashing on a deadline that happened" -- I looked at my pocket watch -- " five minutes ago. Now excuse me."

Time passed. I got lost in my story and the woman eventually found her way to the editor's office. The newsstand edition rolled off the press at 10:45 a.m. and a hump-backed press guy came in and passed out editions that smelled of fresh ink. One of our business writers complained for the hundredth time how he planned to quit if we didn't stop cutting his 25-inch column to 15 inches, and someone told him to stop writing novels instead of columns, and he said "Why don't you kiss my ass you slow-eyed sonofabitch" and all seemed right with the world until the woman reappeared at my desk preceded by the same expensive perfume.

"You're Picasso Smith?"

"That would be me," I said.

"Your editor, Mr. Flint, says I should see you."

"OK. Your mission has been accomplished." I began compiling various scenarios for murdering my boss.

"He meant I should see you about a story -- a kidnapping," the woman continued. "The people who did it are demanding $5,000 or they'll kill my little Tiffany. They left a ransom note and a . . . part of her to prove they have her."

A story with body parts. My brain retreated from boss-murder. "Very well," I said. "Let's see what you have."

She handed me a brown envelope that contained a tuft of white hair. I held the hair up to the light. It was thick and matted. "I don't mean to be insensitive," I said, "but your daughter has hair like a poodle."

"Tiffany is a poodle," she said patiently.

"A dognapping? Are you sure my boss authorized this?"

"Indeed. What's more, I have to raise the ransom money from public donations. Appearances aside, Mr. Smith, I'm almost broke." She smoothed her dress as I stole a look. "Other newspapers have declined the story, and Mr. Flint was kind enough to recommend you. He said you specialize in twisted tales. However, he set two conditions."

"Break them to me gently."

"Number one, your newspaper gets to keep any money raised over $5,000 as a result of the publicity. Something about 'beefing up' The Frisco Foil Christmas Fund for Orphans and Widows."

That would be the annual Christmas party. "Go on," I said. 
"I am to be the featured attraction in something called The Page Three Girl, which comes out on Saturdays. In fact, after talking to you, I am to report to your photo studio. Where would you like to do the interview?"

Those delicate hands smoothed her dress again. I grabbed my hat and my notebook. "We can talk across the street," I said. "There's a bar where we can grab a bite to eat, Miss . . . ?"

"Hollings. Hayley Hollings."

I froze. "Heiress to the Hiram Hollings fortune?"

"Why Mr. Smith, you knew of my late father. You and three million others. Shall we go?"

A missing poodle. A tuft of hair. A smart-mouth heiress with no money who agreed to pose as a Page Three Girl for fifty bucks and six free glossies. And a twisted tale. "What is today, Miss Hollings?"

"Why, it's only Tuesday, Mr. Smith."

I sighed heavily and led the way out the door.

Chapter 1

The lunch rush hadn't hit The Chinaman's Tooth. I saw a few regulars, plus Woo, the bartender and owner. I motioned to him that I wanted my regular: roast beef and swiss on rye with horseradish and a bottle of Moxie.

Miss Wells looked like someone who had just been taken hostage. "Must we eat . . . here?" She asked.

"This is a comfortable place," I said. "And the walls don't have ears. Isn't that right, Woo?" The bartender came up with my Moxie and a menu for Miss Hollings. His small, strong hands quickly set a pair of lunch places. He walked away without a word, his mouth set in a lipless frown. Miss Wells followed him with a sneer.

"Woo doesn't like you," I said. "That's not a good sign."

"I'm devastated," she deadpanned. "He actually looks familiar, but his kind all look alike to me."
"Cut that talk right now, Miss Hollings."

"Well, I'm sorry." She looked offended. "You see, I have a yard boy -- Oh goodness gracious!!"

She jerked her leg at the snuffling sound underneath the table. From out of the darkness came the smiling pulpy mush of an English Bulldog, his face framed by a halo of beer suds. Curiousity satisfied, he parked himself sidesaddle next to our table and began cleaning his private parts with gusto.

"What is . . . that?"

"Fatty Arbuckle," I answered. She gave me a look, and I continued: "No. Really. He's the bar dog. Fatty is an alcoholic but the hospitals don't admit canines, so we just feed his habit and hope his liver holds out. Anyway, we'd hate to see him get the shakes. Fatty likes you, Miss Hollings. Or maybe he just likes the way you smell. I know I do. But that's beside the point. You're batting .500 at The Tooth, which is more than most people in your tax bracket. Let's get started before Fatty decides to fall in love with your leg."

Miss Hollings crossed her legs and told her tale in order: She arrived home last evening after a day of shopping and found her apartment ransacked and no sign of little Tiffany. The brown envelope appeared this morning, stuffed under the door demanding the five grand, which she didn't have. Although she gets a weekly stipend from her daddy's will, she's wasted it by running up shopping bills in every part of San Francisco. 

"The rest of daddy's millions is held up in trust, to be released when I turn 55," she explained. 

"That's to guarantee I have some money when I'm old and fat and no one will want me." 

"Your father had a temper," I said, "but he wasn't stupid with his money."

"No," she said icily. "Daddy loved his money. What else do you need to know? I can set up a deposit account at Fidelity Bank where people can make donations . . . "

"That's fine, Miss Hollings. Except your story is full of holes."

Her face turned four shades of red. "Excuse me?"

I counted off on my fingers. "Number one, why would the kidnappers asked for only $5,000? No one knows you're broke. Number two, why would they ransack your apartment? I doubt little Tuffy put up much of a struggle. Number three, how do you expect the public to contribute to a Dognapping Fund when your old man had more money than Zeus?"

"Your editor asked the same questions. The answer to the first two, I believe, are the same. The crime was done by amateurs. They broke into my apartment looking for cash or jewels and found none, so they settled on my poor dog. The answer to the third question lies with your photography staff. Your editor thought he could sell the public on -- how did he put it? -- coughing up $5,000 if I posed on Page Three. Frankly, Mr. Smith, I don't care anymore. I just want my Tiffany back."

"She must be some dog."

"She loves me," Miss Hollings said. "There's something about unconditional love, Mr. Smith, although I suspect you know little of it."

"In my business," I said, "everything has conditions."

Woo came over with my sandwich just then. He turned to Miss Hollings to take her order, and she replied: " I'll just have water, please. In a respectable establishment, both parties are served simultaneously."

Woo walked away stone-faced, and I fixed Miss Hollings with a stare, but she only shrugged. "I'm expressing my opinion, Mr. Smith -- more than his country ever gave him the right to do. He is . . . Chinese, isn't he?"

"With a little bit of Cherokee," I replied.

I finished half my sandwich and offered the rest to Fatty, sans horseradish, which would have upset his delicate constitution. I left an extra large tip for Woo and I made sure Miss Hollings saw it. I exited the establishment without holding the door, hoping Miss Hollings felt the hump-hungry bulldog eyes that were burning holes in her back.

Chapter 2

My story ran Saturday on Page One and reefered to Page Three, which carried a three-column pic of Miss Hollings with her back to the camera, looking over the shoulder in a white one-piece bathing suit, black stockings with seams, high heels and a look that passed for sultry if you didn't know her too well. 

I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down at my kitchen table. I read her measurements, which were at least as good as my lead.

Then my phone rang.

"She's taking you for a ride, boy-o. I hear they went for the back pose because she's got small bazumbas."

I made sound like two cats fighting and heard the throaty laugh of Blanche Henrico, my favorite private dick. We hadn't seen each other in three weeks, and I realized just then how much I missed her -- her and that stupid trenchcoat. Blanche had a downtown office and we had a history of running into each other on good stories. I asked about her plans tonight, and if she wouldn't mind marrying me.

"I'm serious, Picasso. You want to stay clear of her."

"I am staying clear of her, dearest. She's a 15-inch story. A cheap Page One lead and a chance to fatten our Christmas Party Fund if we raise over five grand. If you know something I don't, you're welcome to spill it over a bottle of wine. I'll bring my own beer."

A small, uncertain sound came back over the phone.

"Hey," I said. "You holding out on me?"

"I'm going to tell you something, and I want you to listen." This was Blanche's professional tone, the kind she reserved for district attorneys and bail bondsmen and semi-lucid hopheads. "I'm representing a party in this case, and I'm telling you, Miss Hollings is a woman to be avoided."

"Blanche. It's me."

"I'm representing a party in this case."

"You're working for the dognappers?"

"I'm representing . . . "

"Ok, OK. I get the point. You want my professional opinion? Miss Hollings is snide, bigoted, slightly mixed-up little girl in a woman's body -- and I mean a woman's body. She's not nearly as smart as she thinks and is probably two steps away from bankruptcy. But I haven't found her to be dishonest So far, she's just stupid and small-minded. If that were a crime, I'd have no one left to cover at City Hall."

"I've said my piece, Picasso." A slight hesitation, an unspoken warning. "I'll be seeing you."

The line went dead, and my stomach began tying itself into a knot. Blanche had represented "parties" before that got involved in my stories, but we could always talk between the lines. I poured myself a second cup of coffee and fried some eggs and bacon. I read the classifieds. I waited for her to call back.

Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang. I waited until the third ring and picked it up.

"Picasso Smith's Escort Service and Lube Joint. I'm free tonight and I'm no longer infected."
"E-Excuse me? Mr. Smith?"

"Oh, hello Miss Hollings. How are you this fine Saturday morning" The bugler in my head began to play recall, and I devised an orderly retreat. "That Page Three photo certainly turned out pretty good, eh? I bet you're getting a lot of calls. Don't mind me. I was just playing . I figured it was you calling. "

"Yes, well . . . . between my photo and your writing we appear to have stirred things up. The bank has already received pledges totalling $3,730 and anticipates going over the $5,000 mark before they close at noon today. On the bad, side, I've been getting other types of calls . . . "

"Oh really? "

"The perversities out there are mind-boggling."

"Every man needs a hobby, Miss Hollings."

"Yes, well, I'm glad to see the fund-raising has worked out. With any luck, Tiffany will be returned just in time for the dog show."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, I must have forgotten to tell you." She laughed, and I wasn't sure if she was laughing at me or with me. "Tiffany is scheduled to appear in the West Coast Kennel Club Dog Show exactly one week from today. Imagine how it would be if her arrival would be preceded by a front-page story about her dramatic rescue."

My bullshit detector red-lined. "You never said anything about a dog show, Miss Hollings."

"As I told you," she said sweetly, "I must have forgotten."

"Yes. You must have. You wouldn't have staged this whole dognapping thing as a setup for the show, would you?"

"Why . . . what an impertinent question."

"I specialize in impertinent questions, Miss Hollings. I also don't like to be taken for a fool. If we find that you staged a dognapping to get publicity for a dog show appearance, you'll have to buy a pair of ear muffs to shield your delicate self from the questions that will rain down upon your head. Is that clear?"

She muttered something about never having been called a liar in her life, and how could I be so bold, and I should be thankful for the chance to have a Page One story, as if most of my stories end up next to the classified ads.

"All the same, Miss Hollings. Let's have no more surprises, shall we?"

"I'll contact you when the kidnappers contact me, Mr. Smith," she said in that icy tone. "And we'll go from there."

She hung up without saying goodbye, which frosted me because I wanted to do that first. I was left with the voices of Blanche Henrico and Haley Hollings competing for attention with a plate of bacon and eggs. All were equally cold.

Chapter 3

On Monday, we ran a story that said Miss Hollings had raised the necessary five grand. On Tuesday, the kidnappers called -- or at least that's what Miss Hollings said. She appeared at my desk Wednesday morning in a canary yellow business suit with a white hat and matching heels. The hat slooped down over one eye.

"Why Mr. Smith," she said. "You don't look very happy to see me."

"You're too bright and too early," I replied, "but I got your message. What were the kidnappers' instructions, Miss Dog Show?"

She glared, then handed me a note pieced together with letters from a magazine. It instructed her to bring the money to an abandoned railway yard in the Warehouse District at 1 a.m. tonight where the exchange would take place. It included another tuft of hair. It instructed her not to bring in the police.

"They called me, by the way," she said, as if reading my mind.

"The police? I suspected they would."

"They said I should have reported this matter to them immediately. The detective was rather impertinent."

"You seem to attract impertinence, Miss Hollings. You're a regular magnet in that regard."

"I told them I had the matter under control, that I would not press charges even if they caught the people responsible, and that I didn't want their help because you, Mr. Smith, were assisting me."

I winced. "What did they say to that?"

"The detective laughed so hard he dropped the receiver."

"I can't wait to make my cop rounds again," I said. "You know, Miss Hollings, I never promised to assist you with anything. I wrote a story because that's what my boss wanted. I write stories for a living. Don't expect me to assist you when it comes to exchanging five grand of decent money for a white, panting hairball."

"So you don't plan on accompanying me?"

"I didn't say that," I snapped. "I'll most certainly be there, but not to help you. I want to see this go down. In case we've crossed signals, I don't trust you, Miss Hollings. What's more, I don't like you. You seem to think the world owes you something on a silver platter. I'm not sure what that could be, since you've never earned an honest dollar in your life, at least as far as I can tell. But I'll go with you tonight. And I'll write a story about what happens. And be warned: Those same cops who laughed at you have allowed me to tag along on a few real kidnapping cases . . . "

"Yes. They mentioned that. Something about a hacksaw . . . "
"Jack the Hacksaw Shiverson. Happened six months ago. He kidnapped a 4-year-old girl and tried to return her for $50,000. He ended up with a hole in his head big enough to shine a flashlight through, courtesy of a .12 gauge shotgun from an overly angry detective whose wife just had a baby and who was thinking too much like a father. I was hiding behind a car 20 feet away and pieces of his brain found their way onto the brim of my hat. Hacksaw's accomplice, a short, pretty woman whose name escapes me, vomited all over the sidewalk and tried to surender. Her face accidentally ran into a cop's nightstick. From what I hear, she sees double to this day, but when you're looking at 20 years behind bars, the view seldom matters."

"Your point being?"

"My point being, kidnappings can get turn ugly. More often than not, they do. And if this cash drop looks fake, I can spot it. And that's how I'll write it. The sad thing about this story is that I like dogs. I really do, although poodles were never high on my list. They yap too much, if you know what I mean."

Miss Hollings fumbled with her purse. She closed it with a loud snap and stared at her lap for a full 30 seconds -- I timed it. When she looked up, the muscles in her jaw had formed a hard line.

"You're a miserable son of a bitch," she said. "Someone ought to ram a nightstick up your ass."

She stalked off and I looked after her, slightly impressed.

Chapter 4

That night, shortly before 1 a.m. I arrived in the Warehouse District on the heels of a hard rain. This part of the city featured wide, unlit streets and big-box buildings that were mostly abandonded. Developers built these warehouses years ago to handle the expected tonnage from the railroad, then the railroad went nipples-up into bankruptcy.

I spotted Miss Hollings in the doorway of a small general store that bordered the railway yard. she waved me over. She wore all black: shoes, stockings, a long skirt, a short jacket and a beret at a jaunty angle. She looked disappointed that I hadn't dragged a photographer along.

"They're supposed to be over there," she whispered, "beyond that scrap heap." She pointed to a cone of light inside the railway yard. It showed a shed, an abandoned rail line and the beginnings of the scrap heap.

"I don't like it," I said.

"Why not?"

"Too many hiding places."

"What should I do?"

I shrugged easily. "I have no idea, Miss Hollings. Your neck belongs to you and the money belongs to your sympathetic audience. Either way, I'm not involved."

Just then, two figures appeared under the cone of light. One was stout without being fat; the other was skinny, hands in pockets. Both were short and wore hats to cover their faces. They could have been men or women. They could have been armed with sawed-off shotguns or nothing at all. At any rate, there was no sign of a white poodle.

Miss Hollings took a plain, white envelope from her purse and smiled bitterly. "They were very specific, Mr. Smith. As soon as I see them, I am to take the envelope from my purse and begin walking toward them. They even specified the size of the envelope and the color. I suppose I should start walking. Please stay back. You're not supposed to be here, you know."

I took out my notebook and pencil. "I'll stay right here," I said.

Miss Hollings began walking slowly toward the two figures. She held the envelope in front of her. I had to admit, the instructions had an authentic ring. Kidnappers were as specific as possible; that way, they could spot fakes or plants. I had never heard of anyone specifying the color of the envelope, although I suppose that made sense. It was a cloudy night under a new moon. 

A white envelope would allow the kidnappers to see her, to pick her up early. 

To make her . . .

A target?

I stepped out from the shadows of the doorway.

One of the kidnappers reached into a pocket.

"Miss Hollings! No!"

The kidnapper used a silencer. The first shot knocked off Miss Holling's beret, and she brought a gloved hand to her head.The second shot appeared to strike the left shoulder. It spun her around and she hit the sidewalk with an ungraceful thud.

The two strangers retreated into the darkness, and I found myself running toward Miss Holling as as fast as I could. She tried to get back up, but I pushed her gently back onto the pavement.

Blood covered half her face. I took out a handkerchief and placed it on her shoulder, where I thought the second bullet had struck. I took a second look at her head. The bullet had creased the side of her skull, taking away some hair. With luck, she didn't have a fracture.

"I'm going to call an ambulance," I said. "Stay awake."

She squeezed my hand.

From the darkness came the sound of someone falling head over tin cups, followed by a muffled curse. I got up and began to follow the noise, squinting into the blackness. I told myself this was the stupidest thing I had ever done for someone I didn't even like, and I would probably die with several unanswered questions in my head, such as
Why did the kidnappers shoot her?
Why didn't they at least take the money?
Where was the damn dog?
After several steps, the darkness swallowed me whole. I could only make out murky shapes ahead of me: old railroad equipment, piles of pipe. Then I saw one of the kidnappers standing against the shed, keeping very still, trying not to be seen. 

I approached the figure, notebook in hand. "Excuse me," I said. "I'm Picasso Smith from the Frisco Foil. Do you mind telling me just where you're from, and if you intend to shoot me, too?"

The figure stepped forward. It was Blanche Henrico, looking very sad.

"You weren't supposed to be here," she said.

Something hard hit the back of my head and the blackness was everywhere.

Chapter 5

Oncoming sirens.

Hands pulling at me.

A car door closing.

More blackness. 

I awoke in the back seat of my car. The gray light of dawn shone through the windows. I sat up and waited for my head to finish exploding. I looked at my watch. It said 5:30 a.m. I had been out for four hours.

From my car, I could see the bloodstained ground where Miss Wells had been shot. Yellow police tape bordered the area.

Then I remembered: Blanche.

I got up, drove to my apartment, and sat down in my kitchen. I held a cold compress to the back of my neck, determined not to fall asleep. I vomited twice, had some toast, settled down, and began to think. It was now 5:45 a.m. The first newsroom shift would come in at 6 a.m. to check the national and state wires. Then they'd go to the police station and check the blotter. I had no desire to get scooped on my own story, especially one that cost me a concussion.

I decided to ask the boss.

Mr. Flint always came to work around six-thirty. I got myself cleaned up, got in my car, and was waiting in his office by the time he arrived. He carried a paper cup of hot coffee and a greasy bag that probably had doughnuts. He grunted as if he expected me to be here.

"Smith, good to see you."

"Mr. Flint. Good morning."

Lazarus Flint had been the editor of The Frisco Foil for the better part of 30 years. He was a short, stumpy man with cigarette-stained hands and a weathered brow. Frown lines tugged at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes were bright, blue, crinkly and dancing. His was the face of a man who was never happy unless he was pissed off at something.

"You look like hell, Smith."

"Thank you, Mr. Flint. I feel like hell. I watched the Hayley Hollings dognapping exchange go down last night, and I went down with it. Miss Wells got shot. I got hit on the head. And one of the dognappers turned out to be my best friend."

Mr. Flint peered into the greasy bag and pulled out a crueller. "Keep going," he said.

"Someone dragged me to my car. I came to about an hour ago. Miss Hollings had been taken away, and the cops had been at the scene. I don't know if Miss Wells is dead or alive. I don't know what happened to her dog. I don't know what happened to the five grand. The best friend is Blanche Henrico, the private dick. I suspect she was the one who dragged me to my car. That's all I have."

Mr. Flint took a bite of his crueller. He shifted it into his cheek and spoke sideways. "How far away was your car from the shooting?" He asked.

"Maybe 50 yards. Maybe less."

"You were in the back seat when the cops and the ambulance arrived?"

"I was knocked out, but yes, I would guess so."

"And the cops roped off the area?"
"Yes."

"And they didn't find you, unconscious in your car? Maybe 50 yards away?"
"That hadn't occurred to me," I admitted.

"Indeed," Flint said. "I know some Frisco cops couldn't find cat turds in a sandbox, but you would think they would at least shine a flashlight in the back seats of nearby cars."

"You would think," I agreed.

"Chances are, you've been followed," he said. "The cops saw you, but they know you're wrapped up in this somehow, so they decided to let you sleep it off and tail you. Come around to my desk, Smith. 

Look out the window and tell me what you see."

I did as I was told. Sure enough, an unmarked patrol car sat half a block away. It contained two unshaven, cigarette-smoking men who practically had "cop" stamped on their foreheads.

"I saw that car when I came in," Mr. Flint said. "Somehow I figured it involved you."

"Yessir," I mumbled.

"It doesn't sound like you have much to show for your efforts, either. Except for a little bump on the head. When I was a Frisco Foiler, we got hit all the time. Hell, we were glad to get beat up. But at least we came back with a story."

"Yessir."

"Are you involved with this Blanche Henrico?"

"Not romantically, no."

"Any idea why she might be involved?"

"Absolutely none."

Mr. Flint threw up his hands in a futile gesture, but he did it like someone who enjoyed it. "Well, what the deuce am I supposed to do with you, Smith? Must I put the Great Depression on Page One again, or do you have any other leads that might actually develop into a news tidbit over the next five years? You do realize you're paid to write stories, not follow around rich heiresses and their poodles."

"Yessir, I realize that."

Below me, the cops stirred inside their car. Traffic picked up, it being just before 7 a.m. Across the street, the door to The Chinaman's Tooth opened. The Tooth always opened just before 7 a.m. to welcome the third-shift stevedores and longshoremen who worked throughthe graveyard shift and were just now getting ready to have a beer.

Woo looked up. He acted like he didn't see me and went inside.

"Strange," I murmurred.

Then I shape caught my attention. It appeared in a second-story window above The Tooth, in a room where Woo kept his unrefrigerated kegs. It stayed perfectly still, and I thought for a moment that it wasn't real, that it couldn't be real. Then it began to pant, sticking out a small, pink tongue.

A white poodle.

"Boss . . . " I began.

"What is it, Smith?"

"There's a white poodle sitting in the window across the street."

Mr. Flint harrumphed. "Is that the poodle you're looking for? Remember Smith, there's eight million poodles in The Naked City, and that could be just one of them. Why, when I was a young Foiler, I remember this story about a three-legged Pekinese . . "

His story trailed off as I ran out the door.

Chapter 6

The Tooth looked deserted when I walked in. The bar was to my left -- L-shaped, cherrywood, each stool in its proper place. To the right were tables and chairs -- four chairs to a table, except the corner booths that sat eight. Sawdust covered the floor. The air smelled of stale beer and cleanser.

"Woo? You here?"

Silence greeted me. The kitchen door stood open. I peered inside -- two gas ranges, a long grill, a line of cabinets and drawers. No people.

"Kids?"

Woo's family owned The Tooth. He had an unknown number of children and stepchildren who worked the place. They cleaned off the tables, fried the eggs, swept the floors and generally scurried about like little busybodies, besides doing odd jobs around the city. Suddnely, a piece of conversation returned to me.

"He actually looks familiar, but his kind all look alike to me." "Cut that talk right now, Miss Hollings." "Well, I'm sorry." You see, I have a yard boy --

A yard boy. A yard boy could have kidnapped her dog. 

The door to the upstairs room stood next to the kitchen. I opened it a few inches and put my ear to the crack.

There. 

A few whispers. The shuffling of feet.

I opened the door, took out my notebook and started up the stairs. I emerged into an attic-style room. It held unfrigerated kegs of beer, giant tins of pretzels, two large barrels of pickles, shoulders of ham wrapped in burlap, a few cartons of cigars -- practically an entire balanced diet.

And off in the corner, one white French poodle.

"Tiffany?"

The dog looked at me. It recognized the name. I walked toward it.

"That's a good girl . . . you're a nice little Rottweiler . . . come to daddy . . . come on, you god damn yapper . . . I'll take you home . . . "

Behind me, from the darkness, came the serious click of someone cocking a .38 Smith and Wesson revolver. I put up my hands before anyone asked, hoping whoever it was wouldn't shoot an unarmed reporter in the back.

"You shouldn't have come."

I turned and came face to face with Woo. The poor guy looked like he hadn't slept in three days. Next to him stood Blanche Henrico. She held her revolver at gut level. "Get out of here, Picasso. You are in the wrong place at the wrong time."

I put my hands in my pockets and kept still. "Forgive me if I'm curious why my best friend and my favorite bartender are involved in a dognapping scheme, and why I'm about to be killed over a dog I don't know and a woman I didn't even trust until this morning, until she got shot, presumeably by you, and might even be dead as we speak."

"I'm not dead, Mr. Smith. Put down the gun, Ms. Henrico."

Hayley Hollings appeared at the top of the steps. She had a small bandage on her forehead, and her right arm rested in a sling. Other than that, she was her usual resplendent self: this time decked out in a dark blue business suit, white gloves, black heels and a wide-brimmed hat. She held a silver-plated automatic, probably a .25 caliber, a very polite gun. She aimed it in no particular direction.

"Get my dog, Mr. Smith." 

Blanche stepped in front of me. She had not put down her gun. "Don't do it, Picasso."

Miss Hollings pulled back the hammer on her pea-shooter. "Who do you believe, Mr. Smith? Me, or the person who held a gun on you just moments ago? Get my dog and let's go."

I sat between a Smith and Wesson rock and a .25 caliber hard place, wondering what Mr. Flint would have done in a situation like this. Why, I'm sure when he was a Foiler, this kind of thing happened every day . . . with bigger guns . . . and he was glad for it . . . 

Then something came out from behind one of the beer kegs. It sat low to the ground and it charged Miss Hollings, flinging spit in all directors. It hit her in the ankles and she went flying backwards, heels up in the air, hat fluttering to the ground. Her .25 caliber skittered across the floor.

His mission accomplished, Fatty Arbuckle barked once and waddled past me. He parked himself next to Tiffany, where he commenced to clean his private parts. Tiffany looked on with mild interest.

"Good dog," said Woo.

Miss Hollings moaned once and went still. Blanche smiled and put away her gun I was about to check on Miss Hollings when the two undercover cops who had tailed me came charging up the stairs, guns at the ready, and told everyone to freeze.

"We want the broad with the gun!" One of them bellowed. 

"Take your pick," I said.

Blanche pointed to the far corner. "She's over there, officer."

The officer tipped his hat. "Thanks, Ms. Henrico. We'll take it from here. Oh, Mr. Woo? We'll need your kids to come down to the station and make a statement."

The two cops rushed Miss Hollings down the stairs and into the unmarked car. Tiffany watched her with cold poodle eyes. Woo elbowed past me. Blanche looked like she was ready to leave, too. But I ran ahead and parked myself at the top of the stairs. 

"No one leaves this room until I know what the hell just went on," I said. "What was Miss Hollings doing here? How come the cops were tailing her? Why are the two of you mixed up with this? Why does it look like you're working for the cops? What is it with Woo's kids? And how much is that poodle in the window?"

Fatty Arbuckle barked once, as if that answered everything. Woo hurried down the stairs. I watched him go, and Blanche looked at me with faint amusement. "I'm surprised at you, Smith. I figured you'd have this one scoped out by now. You must have been blinded by love."

"Hardly," I said. "But I keep getting these references to Woo's kids. And the cops want the kids to make a statement. So am I to assume that Woo's kids nabbed the poodle?"

"That's a start," Blanche said.

"And after that, Woo didn't know what to do, so he turned to you for advice?"

"That's reasonably close."

"But that still doesn't explain why the cops wanted to arrest Miss Hollings, why Miss Hollings got shot, and why I got knocked on the head! Dammit, Henrico! I've got a story to write!"

"No you don't, Smith. I've written it for you."

I turned and came face to face with my boss: Lazarus Flint. He held an extra edition of The Frisco Foil that carried a banner headline:

Wells hieress to be arrested for dog abuse! 
Showstopping poodle had been beaten, cops say! 
Dognappers turn stool pigeons, work with cops to snare Hollings!!! 

"It's an advance edition," Flint explained. "I have to fill in what just happened."

I threw up my hands. "Now I'm really confused," I said.

Flint shook his head. "Sit down, Mr. Smith. I'll walk you through it. It seems you and Miss Hayley Hollings are the only ones who really don't know what's going on."

Epilog

Mr. Flint told it to me in plain English. For months, the cops had suspected Miss Hollings of abusing her poodle. They had received reports from dog show organizers and other dog owners -- stories of how Tiffany had been entered in show after show as Wells hoped to get prize money to pay off her shopping debt. More than one person had seen Miss Wells beat the dog if it didn't win, place or show.

"Then Woo's kids entered the picture," Flint said, " although they were never part of the plan," As you know, his kids do lawn work all around San Francisco so they can bring in extra money. One of their clients was Miss Hollings."

"Yeah," I mumbled. "I had started to figure that out."

"Good for you," Flint said. "The kids stole the dog. They had seen it get beaten, too. They were tired of it, and they decided to take matters into their own hands. But they got a little carried away. They didn't have the money to take care of a dog, so they tried put the squeeze on Miss Hollings for five grand. Mr. Woo didn't know what to do. So he turned to Miss Henrico, here, and she worked out things with the cops."

"Worked things out how?"

"They shoved the kids out of the picture. Then, they -- meaning Woo and Blanche -- agreed to handle a fake 'exchange' The cops would monitor the conversation, giving them both tape recorders to carry. They were to get Miss Hollings to admit she abused the dog, and the cops would move in to arrest her. In return, the cops would not prosecute the kids for stealing the dog, or for interfering with an ongoing police investigation. Of course, the cops wouldn't let Woo or his family keep the five grand. Of course, Miss Hollings, bolluxed up the plan by shooting herself -- with birdshot, I might add. It didn't really penetrate the skin, but birdshot at point blank range can make you bleed like a stuck pig."

"And you knew about this all time?"

"I suspected," Mr. Flint said. "After referring Miss Hollings to you, I called a dectective who owed me a favor. He laid out some of it for me, and I figured out the rest. Then I decided to go ahead and assign you to the story, knowing that Miss Hollings would make false statements."

"OK. One more thing. How did Tiffany end up in the window right here?"

"The cops had a hunch that Miss Hollings would come to The Foil to see how you were doing -- or at least to find out how her alleged 'shooting' would play in the paper. They put the poodle in the window and planned to draw her attention to it. -- reunite her with her long, lost doggy and see if she smacks it around for running away.When you stormed out of my office and across the street, she was just pulling up in her car. It didn't take her long to spot the poodle."

"Boss. You used me."

"Only temporarily," he replied. "Besides, I got a front-page byline, and you managed to get yourself a bump on the head."

Fatty barked again, as if he was getting ignored in all of this. I went over and patted his head. "And what about you, Fatty Arbuckle? Poor guy. You don't get anything out of this."

"I wouldn't be too sure," Blanche said. "From what I've seen of his behavior, little Tiffany isn't going to be entered into too many more dog shows. She's going to be playing the role of housewife."

"Really?" I asked. "How can you be sure?"

"They've done it at least five times in the past couple of days."

Fatty panted peacefully. Tiffany gave me a smug look, as if to suggest that domestic life suited her just fine.